Alone Aboard The Ark
by JFK'd
Summary: After Murkoff, a rehabilitation scheme is set up in an attempt to help Waylon Park and Miles Upshur -only for the two to find a much more pragmatic solution themselves.
1. Chapter 1

The snow is starting to settle when his door is opened. They don't trust him to open his own door.

Waylon thinks it's supposed to be helpful. That's what he's told, anyway. He's smarter than to bite the hand that feeds him –much less the one that helps him up out of the car. For a second, one foot in the tacky snow, he has a premonition he'll fall. He leans hard on the left crutch and waves off the hand extended to him in help.

The street is noisier than he remembers cities being, but the noise is comforting nonetheless. Waylon doesn't trust silence like he used to, and he likes the insane mishmash of yells and car horns and traffic. He's even considering buying an iPod, just to have something to listen to.

Limping uncertainly, he stills himself and uses his left hand to adjust his scarf. It's colder than he'd like, and Lisa isn't here to keep one of his hands warm.

The building they've pulled up at is the nice sort –a universe apart from Mount Massive. It's the fancy sort, an apartment hotel with gilded handles and glass doors. Waylon passes the doorman and avoids the stare, insulated from it.

The interior is just as he suspected. Lush, overly-detailed carpets and overly-stuffed cushions on enormous sofas. Everything seems so much larger, and brighter. The only thing he can think to take comfort in is the noise of the bellhops, and the telephone, and the ding of the elevator as their doors open. The noise isn't central, but enough to ground him.

Waylon has been informed that as part of his 'rehabilitation', this is where he'll be staying. It's a whole six-month project, taking off where the hell of Murkoff ended. Patients transported elsewhere, renamed, the files destroyed, the place buried.

But they haven't buried Waylon.

In fact, they first found him wandering around, half-mad on someone's land, snagged on a barbed wire fence. They took him in, took his footage and took down his details. He was treated for extensive injuries and then treated to an even more extensive debriefing –it was another three days before he even saw Lisa.

She saw him across the street, a child in one of her arms, and the other stood by her side. Recognition flickered over her face after ten seconds of staring –he'd been abused so horribly that even the snapshot she got couldn't possibly have been that same man –her man.

Two days later, released from custody, they met under the pouring rain. Waylon still remembers it, clear as day that his oldest boy, who never liked to touch anybody but his mother, ran to his uncast leg and held onto the fabric. And he still remembers that Lisa, who has never had a problem touching anybody in her life, couldn't quite bring herself to lift a hand.

At the time, he'd longed to hear her say something to still his heart, anything at all. Lisa didn't say anything, and even managed to stave off tears, for a while. Though, it was more for the boys than for Waylon: that much he understood. The rain disguised her anguish –it was the only blessing of the night.

The officials on high –Waylon's friends in holy spaces, decided on their course of action. Still unready to return home, he remained in convalescence for a little while. He talked with his boys on the phone, and to Lisa. She wasn't ready to visit –and he understood that. He never wanted her to see him like this.

And now, the third month out of the six, they have given him a place in New York to recover, with individual therapy sessions twice a week and full access to the amneties in the building.

Waylon already likes it here. The noise is comforting, and there is a generous amount of light. He collects his room key. There are none free on the ground floor, but he can live with shuffling over to the elevator.

The corridors are nice and spacious. The corners are wide and open. It's nothing like before. Pausing, leaning heavy on the crutches, he undones his scarf and sniffs, treading light snow onto the deep carpet as he makes his way to the room. Part of him wonders if he could live in a place like this. With Lisa and the boys.

His therapist tells him that it's important to him to focus on his future. And his hopes.

It reminds Waylon that he has an appointment this afternoon. Not that he needs it: Waylon knows he isn't insane –he's seen insane. Every colour in the spectrum of it, and he finds no traits that lie alike. The only thing that his stay in Mount Massive has given him are the nightmares—of the most visceral kind that when he wakes up, cold, in the dark, he can practically feel arms tightening around him like stone.

The only point, he thinks, of the therapy is to collect the medications he's prescribed. Citalopram for the low moods and Zyprexa for the dreams. The rest feels like artifice. Waylon doesn't want to talk about how he feels, or about what happened. He wants to forget.

He has some four hours before the appointment, but finds himself waiting on the clock. Waylon finders it harder and harder to occupy himself currently. He puts it down to the constant moving around, but even now, at the prospect of settlement, he feels nothing but apathy. Before going on the Citalopram he was told that it could make him lethargic, but Waylon had not considered it to this extent. He has no interest in television, or programming. Not book can occupy his attention. He doesn't even want to eat anymore.

It's a working process. For now, Waylon gets by on phonecalls to the kids, and taking long, hot showers. It greatly lessens the pain in his ankle, and he relishes the feeling of the clean water sustaining him. In fact, it's what he's looking forward to most when he gets to his room. Hotels like this, in his experience, have enormous bathtubs.

He leans hard on one side to get out the key and unlocks the door. With his good foot, he gives it a kick to open the door before shuffling inside.

The place is light and airy. Nothing like the lush downstairs. The carpet is pale and subtle. The place has no visible personality. There is an open plan kitchen that opens up into a living area. There's a small television surrounded by sofas.

Lisa said she'd drop most of his clothes and his personal laptop the next time she came to visit. Until then, Waylon doesn't really own anything. He has a few things in his coat –the Zyprexa and Citalopram bottles, his phone, a crumpled receipt for the lunch he'd eaten earlier. His wallet.

The place is nice, but it doesn't make him especially happy. It doesn't make him feel anything new, so he remains apathetic, and tired. Limping over to the sofa, he leans both crutches against the arm of the chair and sets an alarm on his phone, before stretching out and closing his eyes.

He tries to think about Lisa's face, above all, as he drifts off into murky darkness.

-

When there is a curt knock at the door, the man in bed sits up slowly.

The dog in his lap barks at the door, and the man drops a hand to calm the creature. It licks his palm first, and then his remaining four digits. Not that it registers to the man in bed. He adjusts himself and says, "Come in."

The past few days have been a blur of visitors, all of them identical in cordiality and patience, all of them in suits and cufflinks. The man in bed makes a poor audience, and an even poorer show of interest. His guest closes the door behind him and comes to sit at the side of the bed.

"How are you this morning, Mister Upshur?"

The generosity extended feels false enough for Miles to dismiss it. Even if he did have any faith left, he certainly wouldn't give it to men of that kind.

"Racing around all over the place, obviously." That's the response that Miles decides upon. It doesn't get a rise from his guest, which seems a shame. It's the only card he can play, currently.

Secretly, Miles theorises that the only reason they don't ask more of him is because they think he is fragile. They've every right to think it, too. It was barely a week and a half ago that he slit his wrists with spare blades from his razor.

If Miles was a more honest man, he'd tell them how he feels: smaller. Afraid of his own shadow, and of the darkness. He'd tell them that every time a doctor comes in for a consultation, he's terrified all over again that he'll lose more than his blood or his fingers.

Instead, he settles for sarcasm.

His guest smiles, and then strives for a breezy tone. "I have some good news for you, Mister Upshur."

Miles scratches behind the dog's ear gently, his arm curved so that the long scar up his arm is invisible. It looks silver in the light, and while he feels numbness towards it –even indifference, it clearly makes his guest a little uncomfortable.

The man is staring, so Miles has to prompt him. "I'm assuming 'good' is some kind of euphemism?"

The man coughs and tries to continue, his eyes shifting purposefully from the wound, then to what remains of Miles' ring finger, and then just above Miles' gaze. He evades the question just as tactlessly.

"As part of your rehabilitation, you're being discharged tomorrow, where you'll-"

Miles considers the imperative. _You will_. He has had enough to do with compliance in order to survive. "Will I be free to go?"

It stifles the man somewhat. "Tomorrow you'll be escorted to your new place of residence in New York-"

Miles knows this isn't the man's decision. Anybody sent to have to deliver news and look at him is simply a messenger; an agent of another man's words. And at the very bottom of the pile, the most helpless and powerless –that's where Miles is finding himself. After all of it –he is powerless to do anything, and it makes him cold with fury.

Trying to temper his nerves, Miles swallows. "So, I'm not free to go, am I?"

The man's utter uselessness does not appease or quell his rising disgust at the situation. Miles cannot live on his own terms. He couldn't even decide to die. They can no more domesticate him after what has transpired than they could a boa constrictor.

"It is only temporary, you understand, but necessary. We have arranged individual therapy sessions to monitor your progress. Your expenses will be covered for your time there, as well as prescriptions."

Miles stares down at the sheets when he listens to the man talk. Not defeated, but desperate. He coughs, angrily, and looks up. "I already told you everything I know. Isn't that what you're after?"

His guest holds up both palms as if threatened by Miles and somehow wishes to surrender. "Mister Upshur, I assure you, our only interest now is you safe progression back into-"

The mendacity is intolerable. Miles despises it. "You're never going to let go home." Staring hard at the wall in front of him, Miles tries to distance himself from the frustration. He coughs again, dryly, harshly. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

The man looks around as if for some elected official to appear and tell him what to do. But none appears, and all he can be left to do is wriggle under the weight of Miles' accusations.

Standing, as if shyly, his guest simply says. "You'll be collected at eleven thirty. Until then, I suggest you get some rest."

Miles wonders, for a second, if the man is ignorant to the fact that sleep will not grow his fingers back, or let him forget. The only emancipation sleep has to offer is darkness.

He doesn't see the man off, but takes up the remote from his bedside and jabs the hospital television into life. His guest lingers, as if conflicted, and goes to speak. Sensing the words before they come, Miles holds the volume button down hard, drowning out the last, pathetic, "Goodbye, Mister Upshur," before the door closes and he shuts the damn thing off, falling limp back into the sheets.

Slowly, carefully, he turns onto his side and inspects the stump of his right index finger absently. It doesn't hurt anymore. At least, he thinks it doesn't.

-

Waylon is surprised to find out that his therapist comes to him for the session.

He didn't think house calls were advised –especially being alone with a patient. It makes him wonder –is he considered dangerous? Some kind of threat? Perhaps they suspect that all of the experiences he has internalised will tear out of him in a violent outburst.

If so, Waylon thinks they must be underestimating the strength of the Citalopram.

His therapist is a well-groomed man with one of those intelligent, pleasant voices. He comes in, proffering a fair-trade chocolate bar and a smile.

"I'm sure you can think of more enviable ways to spend an hour," The man smiles. "So consider it a form of compensation."

Waylon finds eating more troubling than it's worth. He puts the weight loss down as the reason Lisa didn't recognise him at first. He couldn't tip 140lbs soaking wet now.

Still, he respects the cordiality of the gesture and shuffles over to the kitchen, putting the bar down on the side. "Can I get you anything to drink, Mister-..?"

"Apologies. Reynolds. Mark." The man sits, retrieving a slim file from his briefcase. "I'd like a glass of water, if you can manage."

Waylon doesn't clock the insinuation until the tap has already starting running. His ankle is in a cast –he's not an invalid. He tries to ignore it for the most part. He wants to give the therapist a chance, but is finding it difficult to do so.

For some slanderous and obscene reason, the man reminds him of Jeremy.

It's the voice, and the neatness. It makes Waylon's hand shake so badly that he spills a good portion of the water just trying to make it back to his seat.

He rests the damp glass on the table between them, and his therapist nods thanklessly without looking up from the slim file. "Thankyou." The man says, more like he is issuing an automated response than engaging on conversation.

After a few moments in silence, the man looks up, a soft smile appearing on his face as soon as he does. He closes the file and replaces it in the case, only to return to his lap with a blank notepad and a pen poised in his hand.

"Is there anything you'd like to open the session with, before we begin?" The man's tone appears encouraging and kind, but it only makes Waylon more suspicious of the generosity being extended. There is no explanation of it.

Waylon swallows. "Like what?"

It gives his therapist pause for a matter of seconds. The man's fingers steeple together before one gesticulated towards him. "Well, for example, how are you finding your medications?"

Waylon shrugs a shoulder in an act of non-commitment. The issue is dropped, for now.

"I suppose I should start by giving you a little more information." That smile never wavers. Even at Waylon's violent indifference. "Feel free to call me Mark. I studied general psychology at Pennsylvania and went on to specialise in cognitive behavioural therapy." He pauses, wetting his upper lip. "I don't expect that would mean much to you. Why should it?"

Waylon stares hard at the glass table. A horrible, queasy sickness fills him as the similarities in the man's voice and syntax match with Jeremy's. And, God, Waylon hasn't thought about it in such a long time –he thought he had forgotten –thought he was made of stronger materials.

"Cognitive Behavioural Therapy concerns changing your cognition towards an event or towards yourself to achieve a different outcome. It is –essentially, a smarter way to think. It tries to resolve bad coping strategies or vicious cycles." The man pauses again, his smile slipping slightly as he re-assesses Waylon's interest in what he's saying. "Do you understand me, Mister Park?"

Waylon nods. He nods, and then tries to get some words out. He has never been known for being particularly verbose. "I understand you."

The vocal confirmation is enough to restore the therapist's smile to it's previous glory, and the man continues, making a small note in shorthand before clearing his throat.

"Excellent, Miste –I'll call you Waylon, if that's alright with you." But he seeks no response to that. "I'd really like to know how those anti-depressants and anti-psychotic medications are treating you, Waylon. Are you experiencing any side effects: headaches, troubling sleeping, anything like that?"

Again, Waylon goes to shrug, out of habit, but follows it with words. "None that I've noticed."

The therapist nods, as if greatly sympathetic, and says. "That's good –isn't it? Do you feel that they've been working effectively?"

At that, Waylon nods. It's the only thing he is certain about. "I've had fewer nightmares on the Zyprexa."

"And the Citalopram?"

"It works." Waylon says, uneasily. "I don't think about –I don't get low as often as before."

At last, the therapist picks up his glass of water and takes a very measured little sip, as if testing the taste or acidity of it. After the futile little action he sets the glass on the table again and writes something else. The silence extends, only to be broken again.

"That's excellent." The therapist says, eagerly taking note. "Great stuff." Waylon can see the more dangerous part of the conversation coming. He can feel the end to their relative smalltalk by the way the therapist leans forward and tries for some semblance of sympathy. As if by his own nature, Waylon feels himself draw back, go stiff and rigid, imagining the next few words will ask the world of him. The suspense is awful, and he lives in horror of the moment that the tension will break.

A cold sweat on the back of his neck startles him and Waylon swallows. He wants, desperately, to get a drink –but the citalopram keeps him off of alcohol and all there is left is water. Right now, he could drink an ocean and still be desperately parched.

The therapist catches a look at him and laughs, gaily. "Mister Park, are you well enough for me to proceed?"

Absently, he hears his voice come out before he is fully conscious of it. "Yes," Is what his mouth says, contradicted by the convulsive twist in every other fibre of his being.

Why does he do these things to himself? It's stupid –_more than stupid, in fact; crazy_.

The therapist breaks his small reverie of panic by taking the glass from the table again and taking another measured sip and expressing his refreshment in a small sigh. "Before we get anything on paper, I'd very much like you to describe the way in which you feel your daily life has been disturbed or disrupted by your trauma. For example, you mentions nightmares. How often do these usually occur? How do they-..." the therapist gives this terrible smile like a shark cutting into it's prey.

"How do they make you_ feel_, Waylon?"

He swallows, and one hand grips tight to the leather of the chair, fearing he will fall back into the consuming darkness, unable to shed a trembling light on any of it, unable to understand. The light outside remains constant. Fighting through the feeling of shrinking, Waylon keeps himself there, psychically and otherwise.

While not being particularly verbose, Waylon never had a problem expressing himself before –but cannot find simple words now. Each of them evade his grasp.

He ends up stammering, pathetic. "T-The dreams..?"

The therapist leans back, as if giving him room. "Could you describe them to me, first? In your own words. "

For a second, his mind is blank. Simple words had been asking alot. Full, visceral descriptions may not be possible –and even if they are, Waylon hardly want to hear himself say the words. He doesn't want to hear about the darkness again or the smell of blood, the sound of the saw cutting through the wood –every millimetre closer and closer. He doesn't want to hear the word 'daring' ever again –he has already scrubbed it from his throat and his ears.

But more than anything, Waylon wants normalcy again. And this is the only way he'll get better. This is the fastest way to get back to Lisa, and his boys. So, he presses. For their sakes.

"They're different." He begins. "Mostly –mostly, they're about the m-morphogenic engine."

Waylon finds it unimaginably difficult to get but just those words alone. It becomes even harder when the whirring of the saw starts at the back of his mind, stapling him to the spot, as across from his, the therapist nods, and scribbles something else down.

"Could you elaborate, Waylon?"

-

"No,"

For the second time that day, poppy blood blooms on Miles' collar. "Goddamnit, not again."

Since the blur of Murfkoff, Miles has endured a slew of identical hospital beds on paper gowns or spare surgical scrubs –this is the first time in over a month he has worn his own clothes, and they're getting bloody after less than an hour.  
Miles isn't bothered by the blood. It's thickness and smile barely register to his senses, no more than rainwater would. It will wash out as easily, too, when he's done wearing the shirt. Miles sees no sense in changing the damn thing now. Probability dictates that he'll get another nosebleed anyway, and there's no good sense in staining two shirts. What's done is done.

He finishes cleaning his face up, and for a second is struck by his own reflection. Miles is not prone to vanity. Truthfully, he's glad to see himself alive, in the light. The last time he saw his own reflection was in the back of a squad car through the rear-view mirror, and he looked like hell. At long last, he looks human again.

When he was first treated, the trauma and shock was so bad that he didn't heal quickly at all. The bruises stayed yellow for nearly two weeks before they fell off. Never mind his hands. Never mind his psyche.

For that, they prescribed him a vast array of colourless pills which have only recently started working. He takes amitrip for the insomnia, zoloft for the depression, and sarotena for the PTSD. All of them leave him relatively numb, but he feels better for the intervention –and suspects that the side effect of weight gain has helped him to appear in a better physical state.

The high spirits are unable to reflect anything deeper than a smile. The only thing making Miles glad is the thought of gaining a little independence. He has calmed down about the New York situation somewhat speculating that even if it isn't his home, it's a start, and it will save him the trouble of finances for a few months.

Besides: it's not another hospital. He's damned glad of that.

Lifting up a hand, he pushes back his hair, still partially damp from his earlier shower. Because of his disinterest in eating the hospital meals, Miles' blood sugar drops now and then, so he shower with a chair, because he's a 'fainting risk. It's demoralising as hell, but it does mean occasionally a nurse will lend him a dollar for one of the vending machines.

His vanity interrupted by one of the suited idiots hollering for him outside the door. "We're ready for you."

Miles has nothing waiting for him. He has a suitcase ready to go. It's just a case with a handful of clothes that his mother brought, unable to believe what had happened to her _baby_. She wouldn't stop crying –it was so intolerable that Miles had to page a nurse to send the woman out.

He unlocks the bathroom door and steps out into the room, hooking his right hand in the handle of the case before turning to face his guest. It's the same guy as yesterday, looking a bit surer of himself.

"The car is waiting for us outside, Mister Upshur –should I call you Miles?" They're all too polite. They're servicemen, likely, not waiters or lobby boys. It's not as if they should live in fear that Miles should be unhappy.

Miles is the first to walk out of the room, free from the burden of looking at it. "You can call me Susan if it makes you happy." He mutters. "Where did you say this car was?"

"Right this way, Mister Upshur." The man takes the hint, thankfully, and begins leading Miles down the long bright corridors. The sound of the heart monitors and pagers are too harsh –too wild, and Miles will not mourn the loss of this place, nor all the memories it stirs.

He's glad to be shown to the back of a car, with tinted windows, and a cool interior. They don't offer him anything to drink, even though Miles is itching for a glass of something cool and strong. It's not recommended to drink when he's on so many pills, but figures that if before didn't kill him, a little light drinking shouldn't, either.

The journey is smooth and silent. Nobody says a word –nor dares to. It makes Miles suspicious. He leans back, slowly, and starts to play with the stub of his finger.

"So, what's your angle?"

They'll be in a confined space for a while, and Miles has gone far enough without answers. He has timed it well: enough so that man cannot leave but is also relatively prepared. The man twiddles his thumbs and says nothing of any relative importance.

"My angle, Mister Upshur?"

"Yeah." Miles watches the stump of his index finger wiggle uselessly, and he sighs. "I'm an investment. Somebody's going to alot of expense to keep me happy, and I want to know why."

It's making the man squirm, that's for sure, but Miles doesn't mind it. He's got all the time in the world. After some time, and with a great amount of difficulty, the man speaks.

"I'm not sure I'm qualified to answer that." He admits.

Without feeling, Miles presses. "Be a sport. Would you?"

The way Miles says it implies it's a sort of game. Of course, it's one Miles has played before, but it's necessary this time. They have hours to get to New York.

And, besides: there are worse games to play.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Waylon doesn't sleep a bit.

At first, he's certain it's the cold, permeating the room, slipping under the sheets next to him. How could he sleep in the cold? It's impossible –unthinkable, even, so Waylon locates the central heating and turns it up, until the bedroom, at least is warm and friendly.

Even afterwards, he lies alert and awake.

Then, he thinks it's the light. Not that Waylon can manage the darkness, but he switches to the soft light of the bedside lamp and rolls onto his side, staring at the white-hot filament and hoping it will blind him into sleep. No such luck. The slight buzzing of the bulb just bothers him.

By process of elimination, Waylon presumes it's the silence. He turns on the television quietly, using that for soft light and background noise. For a few minutes, he thinks it's working, and that he does feel a bit sleepier, but his eyes never close. Consciousness clings to him as the smell of blood clings to a knife.

So, for a while, Waylon tries to watch television.

It takes all he has to avoid hospital dramas and horror films –they are unthinkable to him. But all that's left is nightly news and pay per view porn channels. Waylon isn't really into that sort of thing –he finds them a little too obvious for his tastes, but at this point it seems irresponsible to deny himself pleasure.

Waylon gets all of three fingers in his waistband before realising the real reason for his sleeplessness. No nurses, humming around the place. No sound of that carcrash patient whistling country songs three rooms down. Worst of all, no Lisa sleeping lightly besides him.

No, a quick rub isn't going to make him feel any better, really. He's got an overactive guilt response –that's what Lisa's always told him. Could never skip a lecture at Berkley, could never stand an evening away from home. And he can't stand to jerk off to a gaudy blonde when Lisa is all alone in bed, hours away.

Maybe it's weak, but Waylon fears he is powerless to stop himself from picking up the phone. At the time, he doesn't think about the charges incurred long distance, or the time difference. Lisa is probably sound asleep, and she probably won't answer, but in the moment, just her answerphone message would still Waylon's sleepless paranoia somewhat.

In a giddy thrill of haste, he dials for home, and lets it ring out for a while. Eventually, the line clicks, and his heart palpitates at the initial silence.

In a small, tired voice, he hears Lisa say, "Hello?"

For a second, Waylon doesn't speak –he can't. What can he say that she hasn't heard? All he has is old words, but he puts them together anyway, eventually, hoping they mean something.

"Hey," He says, softly, leaning back to ease the tension in his back. "I didn't mean to wake you."

With her characteristic certainty, Lisa says, "I couldn't sleep."

"Oh."

It's like that for a very long time. Before, when Murkoff has purloined his rights to communication, Waylon thought about all the things he was going to say to Lisa. In his head, their conversations were endless, wonderful –imagined, he knows, but they were what sustained him in that anonymous little workspace.

Now, his mouth is all dried up. His mind is blank and useless.

"The boys really want to come up and see you." At last, the silence breaks. And with it, Waylon's composure. He clamps a hand down in sheets down hard to keep his breathing level. "All James can talk about is you."

He smiles against the glow of the television and tries to a steady voice before responding. "You could come up this weekend, if you want. We could visit the Museum of Natural-"

Lisa sighs. Her voice is gentle and ethereal, more like the rustle of wind in the trees than a sound of frustration. "I'm taking the boys up to see my mother this weekend."

"Oh," Waylon hears himself repeat things, but cannot break the cycle. His desires are voiced too implicitly to get what he wants. And as a creature of habit, there's nothing he can see to do about that. "You could come up on your own –if you want, and we could go to dinner, maybe? Somewhere nice?"

Lisa sounds as if she is ruminating on it, and the hope makes Waylon feel dizzy. To see her, in person. To smell her perfume, to see her smile.

"I'm not sure I can get away for very long. You know what James is like –he really wears Mom out."

Waylon lowers the phone slightly, and hears himself utter one more, hollow, "Oh," before swallowing. "I understand, if you're busy."

The hurt in his voice is no bigger than a splinter, but it's there, and Lisa can sense it. "Waylon, honey, if I didn't have plans, you know I'd get on the first plane up there. The boys aren't the only ones who miss you."

Waylon swallows again. Tries to sound less hurt, and pathetic. It isn't his intention to be cruel. "I miss you too, Lisa. I –_I love you_."

She pauses on the line, and he hears her breathe out very slowly. "I know." She says. "I love you, too." And then, softer, "Next weekend. I can come up then. I'll bring the boys."

It is everything Waylon has needed to still his heart. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, breathing in, needing his utter relief to be met with the warm oxygen of the room. "Thank you."

Waylon doesn't remember if he hangs up, or Lisa hangs up, or if they just lay there and listen to eachother breathe for hours, but when he wakes, the phone is dead, in his sheets and daylight is streaming through the window.

Maybe the batteries on his phone died, or they lost signal, but the way Waylon imagines it, they just laid there and listened to eachother forever.

-

"Are you listening to me, Mister Upshur?"

It would be easy to lose Miles in these busy streets. If it were not for the gaudy red parasol of the hot dog stand he's standing under, the man would blend almost entirely into the greys and blacks of the tourists and pedestrians.

Miles makes a perfect contrast to Mister Park –Waylon had been quiet and submissive -and even _obedient_. Like all the defiance a man can possess bled out of him in the few days he spent in darkness; captive. Miles went by his own free will, and therein lies the key difference: without anybody to blame, where can a man bury his anger? What does he put on it's headstone?

Even so, they're instructed to be patient to any insolence. They are asked to understand –even if they don't want to. Truthfully, they don't want to see what Miles has seen –never. But they're really like him to co-operate some more.

Pushing through the crowd, Miles' presumed caretaker calls after the man.

"Mister Upshur, please!"

Miles half-turns. "You want a hot dog, too?" In a show of mockery and pseudo-sympathy, he pats down his pockets and shrugs. "No spare change. That's too bad."

Miles turns around again, just as his pursuer reaches him. He makes no move to interrupt the transaction –lord knows the travel has been long and arduous, and it's not within his rights or desires to deny the man some pleasure.

The selection of food is poor .When Miles finally does decide on what he wants –taking his time as if it's his to take, he takes his time in getting the dollar out.

The vendor has one of those accents typical to this part of New York. He say, "You want mustard?"

Miles shakes his head, biting into the food, and starts to, at long last, walk away. The vendor sees him off with just seven words, spoken in a pleasant, innocuous way. But those seven words change everything.

"You made the right choice there, buddy."

All of a sudden Miles' fingers go slack.

The corndog drops to the ground, forgotten. One of Miles' hands flies up to his chest as if he's undergoing some awful cardiac trauma. He doesn't breathe. Nor move. The hand on his chest moves desperately up to clamp on his neck.

The agent doesn't know what's happening. Not until Miles staggers forward, with blue lips, gasping, "No."

Miles is putting all of his weight on the other man, convulsing too violently to stand. His breathing comes in staccato, knifelike sobs, and when Miles looks up, his eyes are shut tighter than black holes and his nose is bleeding.

Not even four seconds after, and Miles' face is blue. The man is cold with sweat.

The agent has no clue what to do. He tries to shake Miles' back to some semblance of consciousness. "Mister Upshur?"

Miles is non-responsive. He throws one arm over his face, smearing the blood from his nose all over him.

"Mister Upshur? Can you hear me?"

Miles seems to fall further into the grip of some unknown terror. His body grows heavy with tension. Half-lifting him, the agent takes Miles' wrist in a hard grasp and attempts to stand the man up. It makes Miles furious.

With some superhuman inhumanity he throws the agents off of him and sways, dangerously. He manages to get three fingers up to trace the perspiration on his brow before his hyperventilation finally gets the better of him.

And thusly, with a whimper, he hits the concrete.

-

"Are you going to be alright?"

The porter looks to Waylon sympathetically –the worst kind of stare. "I mean, are you going to be able to manage, sir?"

Waylon doesn't speak. The day to cast comes off, he's going to seriously consider kicking everyone who has condescended to him in the shins, and Waylon isn't a particularly violent person. He takes the tray from the porter –a boy of about seventeen, thereabouts, and nods.

"I'll be alright." Waylon says, very quietly. "Thankyou."

The porter closes the door for him, and leaves Waylon to stagger, scraping his cast along the floor as he heaves over to a countertop, putting the tray down with a clatter. It's only a few feet, but it leaves him breathless anyway, gasping out little breaths.

The big idea, so to speak, is that Waylon wants t get a plan together. A strategy. Now that Lisa is coming over –as if on a breath, steaming over the atlantic to see him, he wants to get better for her. He's acutely aware that he can't speed the healing process of his ankle, or his trauma. For those, Waylon decides to relax, and take his medications just like they told him.

He has to do something –to get ready for her, to keep himself busy. Focusing on his hopes and his future, just like the old therapist said.

After his breathing is restored, Waylon gets the tray over to the coffee table, and attempts to try whatever they have served him as 'lunch'. It's nothing like Lisa's cooking: hers was simple and comforting, even when it inevitably burned on one side as a result of the old oven. No, it's vaguer flavours that weave in and out of one another.

But Waylon isn't interested in haute cuisine. He continues to chew and swallow, more as a ritual than anything else, until the plate is clear and he feels less lightheaded.

When he puts the plate back on the table, he catches his reflection in the glass and sighs. Of course, he never expected a miraculous change, where he suddenly gained back all of his weight and the colour in his face returned. No –Waylon is trying to be realistic, but that one meal was arduous enough, and he knows it will take so many more on the road back to normalcy.

Exhausted, he falls asleep for a few minutes, waking this time with a horrifying start –unsure of where he is for just a second. When he realises, finding some comfort in the sleek, expensive furnishings, he stills his heart and sighs. There's nothing to be done –so he takes a bath.

Before, at home, the shower had been the only place he could have a moment alone with Lisa. Just before the boys woke up, when they were both in a rush to get to work on time; where the hiss of the faucet drowned out the cries and washed away the evidence. It was where they enjoyed most of their intimacy, and the last place they made love.

It's all Waylon thinks about as he slips, backwards into the hot water, carefully to leave his still-cast leg out of the water, hooked over the ceramic.

He thinks about her long dark hair falling straight, thick and heavy water. Her legs hooked around his waist, his back against the cold tile, legs trembling –her pleas for more. The memory is one of his most real –and life-giving. Every detail has been savoured –the smell of her apple shampoo, the hot gasps into his neck, and the waning crescent-moons she would leave him a little gift from her nails on his skin.

Waylon is human –and alone. He can barely control or resist slipping his eyes shut, listening to the sway of the hot water bring the memory to the surface of his skin. It feels sultry and sheer –takes him over all at once, and Waylon is powerless not to give himself a gentle, slow squeeze.

The pleasure spreads through him like a fire in the Santa Cruz redwoods, causing his thighs to tense absently and his back arch like a bow, hissing out in asinine pleasure. A difficult gasp makes its way out of his throat as he brings himself to full arousal, teeth clamping down instinctively on the inside of his cheeks –so as not to wake the boys. When he realises they are far, far away, he chokes out a little whimper and feels something tighten in the pit of his stomach.

He hisses out, "F-fuck," but keeps going, feeling the momentum build in his body, and his movements. Feels himself growing more desperate and more frantic, thinking desperately of Lisa, and only of her. His consciousness feels as if it's slipping, hanging by his fingernails on this side of paradise, trembling all over, gasping out and his hips rise and he gives himself a few sloppy last tugs before he falls.

His consciousness turns to gold, and for just a second his body freezes, the hands of his clock fall into stasis, and all he can thinks about is Lisa –_Lisa, oh-..._

By the time he has recovered, walking on a higher path, head in the clouds, still breathing the oxygenless air up high, the water is tepid and dirty.

Mustering his strength, Miles uses the showerhead to clean himself up once more while draining the tub, leaving to towel himself off. He limps back into the main sitting area in a terrycloth robe and finds his small desert –a brulée of some sort, still sitting, untouched on the tray.

Whether it's the combination of peace or sleepiness –Waylon doesn't know, but he manages to finish off the entire thing. He thinks, all the while, how much Lisa would like it.

-

How did Miles end up unconscious in the back of a limousine?

"I-I don't know!"

He fell, of course.

"I told you, he just –just lost it!" The agent is half-crouched in the back, holding a wad of serviettes to the gash on the back of Miles' head. They were the only thing to hand at the time and now bloom poppies in the wake of the bleeding. "No –of course not. He was in my sight the entire –yes, I'm aware of that."

Miles' is entirely non-responsive. The fall had been so terrible and sudden that all the agent could think to do, first, was check the man's pulse. Even now, Miles is breathing, and very much alive, but his lips are still blue, and his eyes are not opening.

The voice on the other line makes a demand, and the agent squeamishly folds back the strident, wet tissues to inspect the gash in the man's lustrous hair. Truth be told, it isn't nearly as bad as the blood indicates, but is still cause for reasonable alarm.

"The hospital is ten minutes away, I'd guess...-well, I don't know, I'm not a physician!" Leaning forward, the man barks into the cell and leans back, a man going to his brow in utter desperation. "I don't know how it happened." He babbles, "He just went mad..."

The car turns and a pothole shakes it slightly. It's enough to shake some consciousness back into Miles. His eyes do not open, but a tiny sigh escapes his mouth, a one arm slides up the leather upholstery, very slowly, to turn him on his side.

The interior is dark and for a second he thinks that he is in some kind of limbo, able to perceive the sounds of consciousness but not able to view them. Something warm and black is sticking his collar to his neck and pooling on the seat behind him. It doesn't take a guess to know that it's blood.

Miles doesn't quite remember why his head hurts right away. All he is aware of is how terrible cold it is. There's a terrible racket near him –and he recognises the man's voice, but pays no mind to individual words or phrases, thinking he is irrelevant from them –separate.

For a second, he thinks this is how JFK must have felt –barely conscious, bloody and lying on the backseat.

But the thought escapes him when the squawking comes closer to him and the pressure on the back of his head resumes.

"Ah, _fuck_-" He makes a noise of slight pain, and turns away from the pressure, fighting it with a wave of his hand. "That hurts."

"Christ," The voice draws a quick breath in. And then Miles feels himself being propped up slightly. He grunts through the pain, his eyes opening very slightly, looking around in confusion. "Are you alright, Mister Upshur?"

He groans. "My head is bleeding?"

"Yes," The voice says. The pressure on the wound has resumed. It hurts like hell, but Miles breathes through it. "Do you think you can walk, Mister Upshur?"

Miles breathes out very slowly. "Why is my head bleeding?" He turns his face to where he perceives the voice to be coming from and tries to look as stoic as possible.

It seems to stifle the voice somewhat, but it comes out, even a little unwillingly. "You...you fell. After buying your lunch."

Miles' eyes blink lazily and he frowns. "I fell? The hell did I fall on?"

The voice sighs, as if impatient. Miles is in no rush –he lacks the capacity at that given moment. "We're taking you to the hospital to get you head looked at now, Mister Upshur. Will you be alright to wa-"

Miles pulls away sharply, but the movement take it out of him and he slumps against the door, uselessly, with a terrible groan. When he feels a pair of hands go to his shoulders, he hisses, "_No_ –no more hospitals. You said –you s-said..."

"Mister Upshur, your head is bleeding!"

Miles shakes his head. "It's _fine_." And then, shivering, "_Please_. Let's just –just get where we're going."

It leaves the other man between the devil and the deep blue sea, certainly. It would be against protocol to ferry him to the hotel, still bleeding and out of it. Yet, at the same time, he can sense the utter desperation and bitterness that Miles had spoken with before, on staying in hospital. He had been so glad to leave –it seems almost cruel to send him back now.

"You could have concussion."

"I've had worse." Miles scrubs his face and tries to shake away the inertia and dizziness. The blood flow has been stemmed, somewhat but just feeling the viscosity of it on his skin outs him on edge. "No more hospitals, alright?"

It takes an eternity to get his answer. A small, weak, "Alright, Mister Upshur."

The man leans across the partition and gives the driver a new set of directions. This time, when the car turns, it is peaceful, slumping Miles the other way. He feels the heat radiate from the other man's thigh which his cheek is currently pressed again –but Miles can't care. He's exhausted.

He mutters a small, "Thanks." Into the guy's dress pants, and feels himself drift a little closer to something like sleep.

The moment only lasts about three minutes –maybe less. But it is the first Miles ever said a thankyou to any of them.

-

When they bring two suitcases by that are entirely alien to Waylon, he isn't sure what to say.

"Thank you." He says, very quietly, to one of the porters. "But these aren't mine."

The porter –a girl of about eighteen, looks no more tourbled by that information than if it were some traffic report or other conversational banality. She finishes placing the last suitcase and nods to him.

"That's correct, sir. These are for Mister Upshur, when he arrives."

Waylon doesn't clock the name at first. He doesn't give it a second thought, because it isn't his name. And he is very much alone in his residence. Powerless to stop the proceedings, he shuffles over to the girl and makes to get her attention.

"I think there has been a mistake." He says, softly. "I'm the only one staying here."

The girl turns on her heel and looks at him. It is entirely of consequence to Waylon –but she struggles even to meet his gaze. "All I know," She says, boredly. "S'that I was supposed to bring this up to room 103. Is this room 103?"

Waylon's mind is empty for all of three seconds. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, snapping himself out of the inertia. "This is 103, but there's nobody else coming to stay here."

She ignores those words. It would be easy to assume that they went unheard at the volume Waylon is speaking. He doesn't repeat himself for fear of being seen as intrusive or rude, but remains leant on one side, staring at the suitcases in his door.

He is helpless to do anything about it, and so comes up with complacency as his only answer.

When the door closes, he leaves the suitcases be, and tries to think of something to occupy his mind. He makes himself a pot of coffee after a while and sits at the small dining setup, using the hotel stationery to make a list of all the things he wants to do with his family in New York.

The museum is one of the first. Lisa has always wanted to see the statue of liberty –not enthusiastically, but in so much that everyone else already seems to have. Coney island is much the same. Waylon finds it difficult to care much for the tourist attractions, though. The very prospect of being in their company is enough for him, though, he'd like to take Lisa. To see her. And be with her, after so long apart.

In the midst of his reverie he is startled by the knock on the door. "Mister Waylon Park?"

His stomach feels heavy and cold at the idea of the unknown. But he masters it –unwanting to submit to the most basic of fears. Cumbersomely, he rises, and shuffles to the door, opening it.

Standing there is one of those officials, with blood on his white sleeves, looking positively pained.

"I'm afraid there's been a change of plans, Mister Park."

He isn't the only one who is afraid. Nervous as hell, Waylon backs away as gracefully as he can to give the man room. He leads in, and that's the first time Waylon notices the man slouched behind him. The one holding slander-red, sodden napkins to the back of his head, stumbling in pathetically before practically collapsing onto a seat.

Waylon stares at him for a very long time before turning to the other man, demanding some kind of explanation for what he is seeing.

"I'm sorry." The man says. "I know the situation is complicated, but Mister Upshur will have to room with you until vacancies are available."

That's when he clocks it. Upshur. Upshur.

That old expression_, 'miles upshore without a paddle'._

In the grip of a sudden realisation Waylon turns, and then turns again, shame burning his face, unable to look at the man who he condemned to Murkoff and in doing so condemned himself. He feels a mixture of things in that brief moment –relief, horror, guilt.

Most of all, he feels cold.

He replays the scenario in his head, the details escaping him. The whole ordeal becomes werely a blur of vague consciousness. His workspace –the email –lines and lines of code –_someone's been telling stories outside of class..._

By the time he has turned around, cold with horror, a deep panic settling in his stomach, the man has lifted his head from the counter, a smear of blood running up his nose, face hard and derisive. Worse, of all things, the man has the audacity to laugh.

"You're Waylon Park?" He coughs out. "You're the bastard that stole my jeep." The man hold out a hand for Waylon to shake, and he is almost relieved by the man's breezy, almost pleasant tone. He thinks that Miles must have made it out unscathed, somewhat, and begins to feel the warmth of relief until he sees it. The man's hand.

He only has four fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

There's something to be said for that moment.

Waylon will remember it until the day he dies. You don't forget the face of the person who was supposed to be your last hope.

But it's not his face Waylon is fixed on. It's the stump of his index finger. It relieves him and terrifies him so much all at once that he cannot speak. The very sight of Miles scares him. The shadows under the man's eyes are alike to those alive in Mount Massive. The wild savagery of the pace is visible in the man's trembling gaze.

The very way Miles is slumped, as if on his hands and knees, having crawled fresh through original sin. He reeks of suffering –Waylon can see every broken place in the man, the madness in his blood.

His silver mirror, every part and particle matching.

Waylon says the worst thing he can. "I'm sorry."

And the hand closes, folding up, drawing back. Not in defeat –a man so easily accepting defeat would never have survived the things they have. There is more to it than resignation. Something less obvious, and far, far worse.

Waylon doesn't realise they have been left by the official until he turns, searching for help. Searching for an open face.

It traps him with Miles Upshur. His last hope. Like the two thieves, crucified either side of christlike sanity.

But one of the thieves was saved.

He has no idea what to do with himself. Truthfully, Waylon thinks it would break him to look at Miles much more. Did he condemn him to that hell, or simply suggest it to him? Did Miles look to him as a light bringer, or as some kind of Lucifer –Jeremy Blaire's shadowy reflection?

Waylon's throat is dry as the Kalahari desert. He whispers, "S-so..—are you a-"

Miles looks up at the man as if marking down all his weaknesses. The words trail off and die when Miles stands, a little shakily, and makes his way towards Waylon. It strikes him, for a second, that perhaps he should be afraid. Not everyone made it out of those mountains as sane as he has found himself.

In a gesture of geniality, Miles proffers his bloody, four-fingered hand once more and gives this queer, tight smile. The man's speaks through what sounds like a mouthful of gravel when his quiet, sharp voice comes out.

"Don't be sorry."

Waylon can feel every bit of tension in his body beginning to release itself slowly. He takes a breath, testing to see if the air is any sweeter now he has been forgiven. Miles' anonymous face haunted him for nights upon nights –his silhouette a nightly Gethsemane. But the debt has been cleared –Miles is offering emancipation in his outstretched hand.

Waylon would be fool enough not to take the man's hand, and he leans hard on the crutch to his left, palm trembling as he extends it, a nervous smile in his eyes.

Then, darkness. Tinnitus ringing in his ears. The air turning acidic.

Waylon staggers back from the force of Miles' punch, gasping out in shock, at first, and then terror as he tastes blood from his lip. But Miles offers no emancipation –no friendly drop of kindness. In a moment, the man has pinned Waylon to the ground in an act of supreme hysteria.

His hands are tight on Waylon's throat.

"Took my car –took my life!" Miles start to shake Waylon fiercely. His grip is unflinching, casting Waylon's vision into a greyer, greyer world. His eyes are boiling out if his skull. One hand scraping desperately at the wood floor. "You son of a bitch!"

Waylon is breathing hot carbon dioxide from his lungs. Things judder –the focus in his eyes slips and confuses his memory of Miles above him, the salient. He splutters, desperately gurgling, drowning. As he coughs angrily, flecks of rose-tinted spittle fall like snow onto the skin of Miles' hands.

Waylon is beginning to feel weightless, and the feeling shocks him into battering up against Miles' body, managing to get an inch to jerk his uncast leg up quickly, catching Miles' between the legs. The movement is swift and hard –Miles falls back in an instant with a cry of pain, wheezing.

Waylon begins to choke, sucking in a laboured breath, gasping out. With violently trembling arms, he pulls himself onto his front and drags himself to the leg of a chair, attempting to stand. Merely feet from him, Miles is still on his back, breathing with such force and hatred that Waylon has to wonder how he's getting any oxygen in at all.

It takes every bit of Waylon's might to heave himself to his knees.

He coughs up the rest of the carbon from his lungs and prepares himself, in case another wave of hysteria pulls Miles under again.

Still lying on his back, Miles is venomous with spite. "You –you-"

Reckless with misery, Waylon shakes his head. "_I'm sorry_!" The apology comes out grotesque from having festered inside of him for so long. It takes all of the energy from him, and he sags forward, onto his hands, shaking his head again. "I'm fucking so-"

"_No_." Miles' breathing is more even. He lets his head drop back, and for one awful second Waylon can't tell if the man is going to cry or vomit –he does neither. "Do you-.." Miles' voice cracks open, and pathos pours out like an ocean full of bowling balls. "D'you have any i_dea_ what you did to me..? To –to my _life_..?"

"I just-..." Waylon whimpers. "I just wanted to help." And then, anguished, miserable. "I never should have-...I never _meant_ for any of this...I'm _sorry_."

Waylon has been sorry for so long that he is exhausted. He's sorry to Lisa for leaving her all alone. He's sorry to the patients at Murkoff for every damn line of code her ever wrote. He's sorry to his boys that he hasn't been there for them. But above all things, he is sorry to Miles Upshur. For his fingers. For all the things he could not close his eyes to.

But sorry is never enough. And it is meaningless to apologise. Once again, all Waylon has are old words, so he lets them die before they come out.

He keeps his vow of silence as Miles rises, and passes him in a swift walk. Waylon doesn't meet the man's gaze until he hears the door slam shut.

Then, when he's certain of his solace, he slumps back against the chair, guilty, useless –and of all things to be: sorry, still.

Even after all this time.

-

"How are you feeling, Miles?"

The therapist sits across from. A notepad is perched on the man's knee. The pen in his left hand.

Miles is indifferent. Impassive. He wants to die, but he wants to pray, too. This is not what he says. No, the words Miles decides upon are, "This is a waste of my goddamn time."

For a second, it looks like the therapist will bite, but he doesn't. No, he seems familiar with Miles' type, and responds in kind.

"I understand you had somewhat of an incident yesterday. Or, what we refer to as psychological triggering." The man's gaze feels derisive. Miles would rather pull off his own skin off than sit under it. "Would you like to talk about that, instead?"

Before he can get a handle on himself, the words come out, "I just get these spells sometimes." And then, with more defensiveness. "Let's not discuss it."

He watches, with impressive attentiveness, when the therapist nod and his hand moves, making shorthand appear on the notepad. Miles knows that his time is being wasted, and yet feels a fierce indignation at the thought of the assessment culminating any actual results. His mind is sharp –he reads the shorthand upside down.

"Unwillingness to depend to the extent that patient has no interpersonal relationships. Trauma repressed to spare damage to...ego." Miles reads from the page and then looks up at the therapist.

"Trust issues." The man says. "That's why you felt compelled to read my notes, Miles." If that were not enough to make Miles despair, the sudden shift in tone to sympathy and kindness does –it makes him feel nervous. Suspicious, even. "You don't have to trust me, but you have to _want_ to get better for our sessions to benefit you."

"Get better?" Miles muses on those words. About the presupposition within them: about him being crazy. Even the way the friendly ones look at him –it's always this awful mixture of pity and hope, as if they think he can be saved. Picking at the stump of his finger, he laughs. "You think I'm any less sane than you?"

The therapist remains level and unfazed by Miles' comments. "I think you're very traumatised, Miles, and this might make it harder for you to function adequately."

"I function adequately."

The therapist looks very pained for a second. "You slit booth of your wrists not two weeks ago, Miles."

Miles feels himself shrug. "I slit them adequately."

"Why?"

Why? Miles never thought to ask himself that question. He thinks –he thinks at the time, his injuries worse, the antidepressants not working, it seemed the only way to achieve some sort of stability. It wasn't about dying, and it still isn't –Miles like being alive. Or, at least, he used to. Even now, he feels some small joy to still be alive, even if only to spite everyone he left in those mountains. Dead, alive, or otherwise.

"I don't want to talk about it." Is what Miles says. He is genuinely surprised by the therapists tact. The man nods immediately and takes a very small sip of water before depositing the glass back on the table.

"Would you prefer to talk about something else?" Miles can sense the attempt at collaboration or even solidarity, and even if he doesn't believe it, he's too tired to fights against it. Thusly, he nods. What he doesn't expect at all is for his therapist to pause, and then say. "How about your fingers?"

Miles exhales through his nose. "Or lack thereof."

He wonders if the therapist is being intentionally cruel when he taps the pen on his knee and sighs. "Miles, I'm trying to help you."

"No, you're not." Miles laughs. "You're not trying to achieve anything." He can hardly believe the man's nerve, and spits out his words. "How's asking me about my damn fingers helping me with anything?"

It doesn't faze his therapist even a little, and the man's insulation from all of that anger and blame makes Miles all the more furious. They can all go on pretending. It makes a farce of his suffering –it makes him appear over-emotional against the backdrop of his therapist's unshakeable calm, and Waylon fucking Park's _ten fingers _and his little smile like he's _happy_ Miles ended up like this –_happy_ about Miles going fucking crazy-...

"All I'm trying to do is help you to reach catharsis. But I need you to be willing to embrace the more abrasive aspects of therapy." There's nothing but stale air in that voice. Old words. And Miles hates aphorisms –he was told never to use them in the articles he wrote, and has tried to live a life avoiding clichés, but finds that he has become one himself. "Talking about your experiences isn't easy, I know, but it will get ea-"

Miles doesn't know what to do with his anger. He laughs instead. At the ridiculousness of it all. Even though, when he looks closer, he realises he's the only practical joke in the entire scenario.

"Easier?" He wants to shout, but knows better than to waste his energy. "You think having a _chat_ about things is going to make me forget? Hell –y'think there's _anything_ that's gonna wash away the kinds of things I've seen?"

"I think believing you can recover may simply be enough, Miles."

He's heard it all before. _It's all a matter of belief_ –but it isn't. Belief is just something that keeps people safe from horror. It makes for a beautiful armour, and the worst weapon, all at once. And Miles is never going to recover, or push past his insanities if belief is what's motivating him.

He stands up, and leaves, leaving words on the carpet behind him. "Have them pay your the hour."

-

"Y'don't have to pay me." The bellhop stands out in the corridor like he's being given some sort of punishment.

Waylon is giving him the only cash he has available as a tip –ten dollars, which seems like nothing to the man giving, but an unspeakable fortune to the man receiving. It works the other way around, too –Waylon has never been so glad just to see three suitcases, full of his things, hauled to stand outside 103. Things that are of no consequence to the bellhop.

He doesn't make a show of tipping the kid, and says. "I can manage from here." With the most conviction he has. "Thanks."

Somehow, Waylon lives up to his word. Limping, one-footed, he manages to get them all in the door, before closing it with a sigh. It's a sigh of contentment –just to have a few pieces from home makes him inexplicably happier. Their very presence makes the place feel warmer to him –safer. It means he can wear his own clothes and put up a few pictures. If this place is going to be his home, he intends to treat it as such.

Part of Waylon –even a tiny part, tries to suppress the smile bursting forth, remembering his therapist's warning that _catharsis must be achieved independently: it cannot be dependent on the comings and goings of others_.

It's not what he lets consume him. Waylon lets himself be happy. Just this once.

He pulls the first case over to the sofa, before rising and getting himself another cup of coffee. The medications make him listless and sleepy, and he wants all of his senses to be alert. The heat burns his mouth on the first sip but it is a tolerable pain, and he forgets about it entirely when he unzips the case, and looks inside.

It's mostly clothes –inevitably, but the familiarity it something he desperately clings to. Old t-shirts that Lisa rolls her eyes at, dress pants, jeans, socks with the weekdays on them scrunched up. This particular case has the shirt he was wearing when James was born –and when he reaches out he can feel the memory sewn into the fabric –the terrible weather, the tears, the joy.

Wrapped in the clothes are a few photographs, still in their glass frames. Lisa likely packed them so far in so as not to get damaged. There are only two in the case he's opened –one is of him and Lisa at this last year at Berkley: her arms around Waylon. He shakes his head, wondering if there was something about himself he couldn't see that pulled Lisa towards him. Even then, she was far too good for him. The other is a picture of Lisa, smoking a cigarette outside of a bar, mid-laugh, and it only confirms her radiance.

The second case contains more basic things –underwear, a few jackets for the rest of the winter, some shoes. At the top of this particular is a slim file that Waylon regards with suspicion at first, wondering if it's a lingering remnant of Murkoff paperwork.

Inside is a picture drawn by his eldest son. The scribblings are messy, but full of idealism and love. They depict a small stick man, with appears like an enormous sock but is really a cast on one of his legs, holding hands with another stick figure with long, wavy hair and a skirt and a smaller stick figure in a red shirt. Waylon's two-year-old, Colin, has been omitted in this particular sketch. The handwriting at the top reads _'get better soon daddy'_, thereabouts.

It makes Waylon tighten at the stomach, feeling everything inside of him grind to a halt. He forgets, you see, just how much he misses them. How much he yearns for all of the debt and worrying that came with before, balanced by the company of his family.

The third, and smallest case, contains a Samsung tablet, his home laptop and a few more photographs, still in their frames. The first is of James at two, sat up next to Colin when he was only about a week old. The both of them look so confused –Lisa had insisted on framing it. The second is a photograph of Waylon as a teenager –sixteen years old, holding the box for his playstation 2 with utter triumph and delight.

The last is a photograph was taken at Lisa's parents' house at Christmastime –James was nearly two, sitting in his grandmother's lap, between Lisa, pregnant with Colin, and Waylon. He'd had too much to drink that night and fell walking up the stairs. The photograph and the bruise were the presents they got from that household.

The cumulative emotion that it stirs is too much for Waylon to sit idle. He doesn't cry –he won't let himself, insisting that he's past that, and he's getting better. But the belief is idle and all it ends with is him, breathless, ruined with misery and joy, internalising it all for fear that if he lets it out, the crying will never stop, and he'll be mourning it all: Murkoff, the distance, the pills, the dreams...

Waylon is afraid that if he starts to regress a little, all of his careful tempering and hard work will be undone. He fears that his sanity is a farce.

Eventually, he calms himself down, focusing intently on Lisa's smile, knowing that he can hold on for a week more, and then when he sees her everything will be okay. For now, he is content to pack the clothes away, and put the photographs up where he can see them.

For now, Waylon tells himself, it can be enough. It will be. He can love her from here.

-

It's not love. But it's close enough.

When Miles had asked for company of a certain kind, and had even been willing to pay out of his own wallet, he hadn't expected someone nearly as lovely as the blonde twenty-something standing out in the hall. The boy makes a show of being coquettish and embarrassed when Miles coaxes him in.

He doesn't offer the boy a drink. Instead, he leads him into the sitting area and into his room, away from the large airy windows and the soulless eyes of Waylon Park.

Only then, in the privacy of the room, does the boy even talk to him.

"Y'got a name, sir?"

Miles locks the door twice, and when he turns around, he smiles. "Let's leave it at 'sir' for tonight, hmm?"

The boy has no complaints. Instead, he waits for Miles to lay down on the bed after stripping to his underwear, eyes heavy, before starting to undress himself. The blond has a fantastic body –lean and strong and masculine, and looking at it is enough to make Miles' mouth run dry and his thighs twitch. It makes him realise how long it has been since he slept with anyone –much less saw them naked.

When the blonde is naked, he practically crawls up the bed, over Miles' legs, and settles to nuzzle Miles' crotch. It's embarrassing how quickly Miles becomes fully aroused, hands caught in the blonde's hair, murmuring indecencies as if they are old friends, or worse. The boy acts as if he lives for it –as if the dark flush of Miles' erection, hidden by his underwear, is paradise lost and he intends to take them both to the bottom of the ocean for it.

Miles fears he is losing his grip. The sensation is so extreme –fingers, and the hot warmth of a tongue work together to draw him nearer and nearer to his inevitable fall. His boxers are already damp at the front with precome, and Miles' hips are already responding. It takes focus not to buck into the blonde's face and fuck his mouth straight off of the bat.

God, it's so hard for him to keep calm –even worse when the blonde looks up with big, innocent eyes, as if he wants to see Miles so utterly undone. The mouth on the boy is a sin, and it would be grave for Miles not to enjoy himself. The moment the blonde hooks his thumbs under miles' waistband and tugs them down, he takes all of Miles without any hesitation.

Miles throws his caution to the wind, and tightens his grip in the boy's hair, before thrusting hard, with full intent into the boy's mouth. He doesn't choke or pull back, but embraces the desperation of Miles' movements with valour, neat hands fixing on Mile's hips and pushing back against the movement, his tongue moving in small circles against the head of Miles' cock, the back of his throat soft and warm.

He can feel the tightening in his stomach, his thighs beginning to tense, his world beginning to turn to gold, heavy with starlight and heaven –or some place where the air is light and sweet. Miles can't help it –he grinds out a whine and then a gasp, continuing to fuck the blonde's pretty little mouth, savouring every little suckle and sigh against his cock.

It takes everything Miles has to push the boy away, letting out soft little whines as the sting of the air reaches his length. The blonde looks up at him, confused, lips swollen, face ragged, chin dirty wih a mix of precome and saliva. He goes to ask if something is wrong, but never gets to.

"Not yet." Miles says, very calmly. "Not yet. I want to fuck you."

At that, the blonde smiles, and stretches out, half-hard. "Whatever you say, sir."

Is there any combination of words to love more?

-

Waylon watched the blonde enter some two hours ago. Only now is he leaving.

Of course, Waylon doesn't look the man in the eyes when he staggers out of Miles' room, smiling serenely. Miles follows him, looking just as pleased, and they have a very brief goodbye at the door. Not that Waylon pays it much mind –he feels as if he has intruded on something terribly private, it the whole idea of the scenario makes him uncomfortable.

He knows the blonde was a prostitute, but engages in the conversation anyway, with a nice, breezy tone. "Friend of yours?"

For a second, Miles looks surprised at Waylon. As if he didn't think he'd have the gall to speak to him after yesterday's incident. But Waylon can't be afraid of Miles –he doesn't have it in him anymore.

Miles goes to a cupboard and takes out a small bag of peanuts. He ignores Waylon for the most part, which is probably all the safer, waiting on the inevitable comment on which end of black and white he is inclined towards. But Waylon doesn't say a thing about the blonde, remembering Berkley before Lisa, and the men he looked to like there.

The silence is truly awful. There is still much to be said to eachother –apologies and accusations and all the rest of it, but Waylon just wants them to coexist without conflict. He can't get better if the ball-and-chain cuffed to his leg is Miles Upshur.

Turning in the chair, Waylon musters all of his might. He isn't a confrontational man, and fears the situation is asking too much. Then why does he proceed?

"I know-..." He sighs. "I know that you don't want to talk to me-"

Miles' voice is hard as ice. "Then do us both a favour and shut up."

Of all the things to feel, for once, Waylon doesn't feel deferential. "Why?" He realises, with a start, and then presses. "What could I say to make things worse between us?"

"Anything. _Words_."

It leaves Waylon desperate. He hisses out, "Well, until there's a vacancy, we're going to be in eachother's way."

"Then you sure better hope there's a vacancy."

Waylon rises, and marches around the edge of the sofa, standing only a few inches shorter than Miles, but all the more indignant. "You can blame me for what happened to your fingers all you want, but-"

That's what does it. It's as if Waylon has said the magic words –sim sala bim! And Miles has him by the neck against a wall in seconds, nothing human or sympathetic in his gaze. His breathing is heavy, and his grip is impossibly hard.

"I have _tried_ warning you, Park. You don't look at me –or talk to me, or I'll take the fingers I lost _back_, you understand?" Waylon doesn't have enough air to get out much of a response. Ragged, filled with an unbecoming hatred, he manages words.

"You want to get put in psychiatric care?" He wheezes. "You want to go_ back_ to somewhere just like Mount Massive?"

Miles throws him harder against the wall, causing Waylon to cry out in pain, before Miles shouts at him. "You have _nothing_ to bargain with." And then, in a horrifyingly low voice, he grinds out. "All I have to do is squeeze."

Only then does Waylon's fear response set in. Truly having nothing left as a defence, he manages to get out, weakly, "All I have to do is scream."

Miles leaves him to drop, taking these enormous, animalistic breaths. His throat is a little more hoarse when he speaks this time, as if he's overcome with some discernible emotion. "It's all your fault! It's all your goddamned fault, you little insect!"

Waylon doesn't wait to get his voice back. He embraces the cracks in his voice when he shouts.

"_Fine!_ It's my fault, alright? I sent you!" Then, quieter, when he knows he has Miles' full attention. "But you and me both know I am the _least_ insidious enemy you made when you walked into that place."

He thinks of the men in suits The morphogenic engine –mostly, of Jeremy, and his neat little voice and his neat little suit and the way it felt when he was choking him to death on the surly asylum floor.

Miles looks as if he wants to bind his hands around Waylon's voice until it dies for good, but something maybe something that has been said, seems to deter him from it. No, instead, Miles spits at his feet, leaving a circle of saliva on the laminate, before heading back to the privacy of solace with the hard slam of a door.

Waylon sits there a for a long time thinking about only one thing. He is the opposite to Miles in every way –the superego to Miles' id, the morality to the chaos, hope against fatalism, he has to wonder-...is he really any more sane?


	4. Chapter 4

Waylon wakes that morning on the cusp of dreaming.

It takes him a moment to shake off the imagery of broken wood and dust, tacky with blood, three voices from a lonely speaker cooing to him '_here comes the bride...here comes your bride, Mister Gluskin...'_. It all feels so consuming and real, and the dream begins to envelope Waylon like stone –and when he wakes he's so terrified that the warm sunlight and empty room stills his heart.

It's barely past eight, according to the clock on the nightstand. But Waylon doesn't want to risk sleeping again, afraid of his dreams, afraid of the things his psyche shows him.

He lies on his back, desperately afraid for a few minutes, convincing that the shuffle of noise and feet floors below is that monster, _Gluskin_, inhuman, impaled, coming for him. Already, he can feel the man's hard grip, and the essential blade of the shard piercing his abdomen in swift movements. And the betrayal in Gluskin's voice –the utter disgust that Waylon was _just another whore, just like the rest of them!  
_  
After a few minutes, Waylon's breathing calms down, and he starts to gradually accept his surroundings, feeling safer and more familiar.

It's okay. It's okay, he's here, and Gluskin is dead and none of them are in that place anymore. He got out alive and Lisa will come soon and he's getting better. Assuring himself of it, Waylon tears down the hall to the bathroom and rinses his face with cold water, waking himself from the spell, fighting against the grip that the memories still have on him.

He dries his face and treads back down to his room, using the bedroom telephone to order a continental breakfast and a newspaper. Seeing another sane, normal human being usually settles him, so while he waits for the order, he looks at the photograph of Lisa smoking, mid-laugh. It is almost everything he has survived for.

Eventually, breakfast arrives, and he greets the porter at the door with relief. It is nothing to fear. (Though, when he thinks about it, his only real fear is how willing Miles is to take a risk.)

Limping, he sets the tray down on his bed and settles himself, turning the television on, to a low volume. The noise makes him feel better –it reminds him of home. There was always someone banging around at an ungodly hour at the apartment complex in Boulder. Waylon had never minded it –he didn't want to complain and cause a fuss with the neighbours. Lisa didn't mind it at all. There was never an argument she couldn't win.

He forces himself to finish at least half of the pastries, jam and all, before he gets to read anything. It's a sort of mental trade-off.

His therapist is always talking about cognition, and the way Waylon thinks about things. He tells about something called 'Beck's Cognitive triad' alot, which dictates that negative views of the self cause negative views of the world, and then of the future. It creates a vicious cycle which reinforces depression and apathy. If Waylon tells himself he is hungry, and he can eat breakfast, and half is a ratio to be proud of, it will stop things for ending badly.

He ignores the part in which his therapist says _things get set in motion_. It may be that negative thoughts are the symptoms of depression, and not the cause. But Waylon cannot go back and un-experience all he has seen, so for now he nods to himself, proud to have eaten anything, thinking about how much better he'll look when he's back with his family.

As a reward, he reads the newspaper.

Of course, the only thing available is the New York Times, but he persists with it. There are a few headlines about oil in other countries, and small, inconsequential disputes. The domesticity of it makes him feel much better: that these tragedies are far away, and he doesn't have to worry about them.

Waylon finishes off the orange juice reading about military operations, swallowing the bits and all, before an ugly noise halts his functions and causes him to cough violently, jerking forward in bed, barely able to read the trembling print.

_MURKOFF HOME MOVIES –As if the anonymous inside footage weren't damning enough, documentation by an investigative journalist puts the final nail in the corporate coffin._

It takes Waylon the best part of three minutes simply to process it. The world can see it –they can read it. The name that was his last hope and his lifelines and he nearly died for the cause.

As awful as it appears, the first thing Waylon thinks is that now they're even.

Isn't that what Miles had gone for? Some kind of promotion, or recognition? A way to earn his salt further as a journalist. Even for the chaos of Mount Massive –even for Miles' damn fingers, wasn't this his endgame?

(Waylon doesn't think of the word endgame at that moment and how, ultimately, it means nothing, because when one reaches endgame the pieces are simply reset, locking the players in some kind of stasis.)

No, he hurries out into the hall, hearing his cast scrape on the wood. For a second, he's good and ready to knock on Miles' door, but decides against it, ultimately. His enthusiasm to get even with Miles –for it all to not be his fault, will never be greater than his fear that Miles would gladly kill him. Waylon thinks that even if it's all his fault, he's sane and rational and he can live with it. Miles is crazy –and there's no set breaking point.

He doesn't chance a run-in, but leaves the article circled on the coffee table before departing.

It's a small victory, he knows, but he counts it all the same.

-

Miles thinks that there is something terribly wrong about this scene. It starts with the fact that he's sure catholic churches aren't supposed to close.

As he sits outside the steps of Corpus Christi Catholic Church as the snow begins to settle, he thinks about the walk from the hotel. It took him over an hour in the snow and cold, and now he's there, the doors are all locked and the church is closed.

It's not like he's devout or anything –no, all Miles wants is to head inside and light a goddamn candle, because it used to make all the difference to his mother. He's supposed to be able to because Churches are supposed to be open like McDonalds or convenience stores: you never know when you're going to need salvation. The place is supposed to be manned like an emergency room: because somebody always needs to confess at an inconvenient hour.

But it's not an inconvenient hour. It's barely three in the afternoon and nobody is there.

There are plenty of other churches nearby, or on the walk back that are open, but none of them look right to him. He'd seen this one from down the street, and wanted to pray_ here_ most of all. He wanted to feel like the place he was going to was connected to some kind of deity. He was after a confessional with a big red telephone to god.

It's a crummy reason, sure, but he's certain he doesn't need a better one. There isn't supposed to be an emergency that opens the doors. On the walk, he imagined strolling inside and absolving himself, or whatever, and leaving.

The biggest irony of all is the embossment, in fancy gold leaf on the side of the building: '_when my strength failith, forsake me not'_.

It's too cold for Miles to consider the long trek back, and he's not really interested in the other churches anymore. Of all things, he wants to know what the priest in there is doing, because it sure isn't his job. This is the first state Miles has ever lived in where the priests knock off work before everybody else, and it makes him furious.

Instead of sitting around, Miles rises and walks back up the street, waiting on the corner to hail a taxi. He has been thinking about his mother lately, and how going to confession always seemed to give her strength. Therapy doesn't make him feel any better at all, but the idea of confessing, and having some kind of penance interpreted, and then being absolved...Miles likes that idea.

Of course, he doesn't believe. But the idea is nice.

After he's all tacky with snow, a taxi pulls up and he takes it back to the hotel, shivering in the backseat. He'll be glad to get back to the hotel, just to warm the cold of his bones back up. A hot shower is his first priority –a hot shower without sitting down. The simplicity of the thought is in no way proportionate to Miles' excitement. The very suggestion makes him giddy.

They pull up about twenty minutes later, and he pays the man.

"Thanks." He says, without leaving a tip. Not that the driver gets to complain –Miles is away like a shot. The journey had been slow and unpleasant, and he doesn't owe anybody his appreciation in a tip.

As he rides the elevator up to the room, the thought strikes him that maybe he should write an article. Nothing wonderful, or polished. In fact, he'd like to write something bad, just to have the words on paper. Maybe about the church being closed, or about the mendacity of belief. Just not about what happened before.

Miles unlocks the door and heads inside, peeling off his overcoat, in relief at the warmth of the place. On sight, it appears empty, too, which is better news to Miles: he cannot stand Waylon's presence. The man's pathetic shuffle or the way he looks at Miles like he feels sorry for him. As if Waylon is saner.

_Fuck him_, that's what Miles thinks. He's still got those fingers left.

He showers very briefly, enjoying the liberty of having the door open, being able to hum loudly under the showerhead. The first few times he washed after being hospitalised were always unpleasant: his fingers would bleed and he'd get faint from the sight of the water turning rosy. Now, he's in a much better place.

After towel-drying himself, he retrieves his old work laptop from his suitcase and brings it out into the sitting area. He lets it load up while ordering lunch over the hotel phone –careful to make the most of the benefactor's money by ordering something expensive. When he returns to the coffee table, he clears the table as a means of trying to clear his head, about to throw away the newspaper when he sees it.

The headline.

Suddenly, the blank word document is so much more daunting. Because now Miles knows the world is listening.

-

The therapist is all covered in snow when he comes for his visit this time

Waylon gets him a coffee, easing himself to the sofa slower this time. The cup is dry when he places it on the table, ad he sits, as if proud to have demonstrated how fast he is recovering.

It doesn't change the ritual. The therapist gets out his notepad and his pen, poised like a weapon, and leans back like he's giving Waylon agency to perform. Honestly, it is a bit of a performance. Unconsciously, Waylon finds that he tries to smile more in these sessions, and he talks about his achievements at length where he skirts around having more nightmares. But is that such a bad thing? Waylon is so desperate for the man's approval, he doesn't mind behaving in such a way.

The session opens with a curveball.

"How is your leg, Waylon?" The man smiles. For a second, Waylon has no response. He can't think of a way to describe it. The wound itself has not been painful in a long time, but the nerve damage and initial sepsis meant that he had great trouble feeling sensation in the foot, and little hope of walking on it. He hasn't a clue how it's doing, and won't know until the cast comes off.

Despite having no response, Waylon forces something more loquacious out of himself than a shrug. "More of a nuisance than anything, now."

The therapist nods. "Understandably so. When are you aiming to have the cast removed?"

"I'm not sure." In his head, he counts the months, but comes out empty. He used to think only in numbers, and if-then statements, but now his mind is a mess of variables and _perhapses_. "Pretty soon, I guess."

The therapist nods, and seems to consider something for the briefest moment, biting his lip in a passing microexpression as if conflicted. After a while, it comes out.

"I think it'll do you a world of good. Physical and psychological recovery have always worked in tandem with one another." He notes something own, quickly and then says, "I want to talk to you today about goals."

Waylon's mind goes blank for a second. He assumes it's some kind of sporting analogy.

The therapist must notice his unresponsiveness and laughs. "Not to worry –it's a routine part of CBT. I want us to talk about what you hope to get out of our sessions. What do you think, Waylon? Any ideas?"

Nothing comes out of his mouth. Not at first, anyway. His premonition is to say that his goal is to get back to how things were before. But that's asking too much of one man –it's impossible. He'd settle for seeing his boys, or for a night of sweet, dreamless sleep. But these are things that his therapist cannot do for him.

After a long time, Waylon sighs. "I'm not sure." The silence isn't interrupted. Waylon uses it as intended, and thinks hard on where he wants to be in a few months time. He wonders if it's possible to no longer need the pills. If it's possible to want to live for the sake of it, and not just for Lisa's sake.

With some conviction, Waylon says, "I want to-...I don't wanna get low as often as I do."

The therapist acts out a pantomime of pride. "That's a very good suggestion, Waylon. We can work towards that right away."

The words give him a vision of a switch being flipped, or some red button being pressed and then everything returning to normal. Hell, he can already see himself on the flight back to Colorado, making dinner in the too-small kitchen, doing contracting work to make ends meet and taking Colin and James over to the park when he has free moments. In the midst of it all, he smiles.

The therapist doesn't press. "You don't have to think of all of them now. In fact, it would be more beneficial for you to go away and give it some thought." He gives Waylon a small look that has enough optimism in it for Waylon to feel considerably less nervous about voicing his own ideas. "Make a list for the next time you see me."

As the session continues, Waylon likes to think of all the things he wants therapy to help him with. The nightmares. The words that make his world go grey. The few seconds when he wakes in darkness, unsure of where he is. He's tired of being afraid –of being sick and skinny and pitied, of all things.

In the session he says none of that, but focuses on answering the questions in front of him. He thinks of it all as some kind of standardised test –and that if he gets enough right answers, he'll qualify for the everyday again. The beautiful ordinary.

The therapist appears to read the desire in him and plays it like a card. "All of this being moved around must make it hard on you and your relationship with your family." The words hit, dully, and part of him thinks about how confused his boys must be, and how creative Lisa's excuses are like to have gotten. But all he can think about, really, is himself, and how much he suffers from being pulled away. "When are they coming to visit you?"

Waylon smiles, absently. "This weekend. She said –Lisa said she'd bring the boys."

"How does that make you feel?"

The obvious words don't feel genuine in his mouth. Not happy, because it's too weak a word. But something of that ilk. Waylon musters courage, and tries to be honest. This is one of the only places he feels he can be. "It's keeping me going, to be honest. I know-...I know it's not fair to rely on them like that."

"You understand that trauma changes people, don't you, Waylon? And that might change your relationship with your wife somewhat." The therapist gestures vaguely. "Of course, I'm not setting anything in stone, but that possibility is still present."

"I know." Waylon says, but not for one minute does he really believe that Lisa –his Lisa, who has all the vices he sympathises with and all the virtues he admires, could ever leave him. Not Lisa.

The therapist seems to sense it, and presses with a few more gentle words. "I want to give you an exercise to try, if that's alright with you?"

Waylon nods. He isn't too eager. Playing at things rarely makes them more than games.

"I want you to think about your happiest memory. In great detail. Try to put yourself in that moment." The therapist leans back. "Take your time." He says.

At first, Waylon is at a complete loss. All he can think about is Mount Massive. The cold, and the sound of his barefeet on tile and wood and cold, metal floors. He fights against it, thinking of all of his life before. Of birthdays, and of graduation, and the first time he saw one of his children smile.

His mind settles on something. August –cracks of thunder and rain has dulled to whispers. It was the small hours of the morning, the phone lines whistling like his breathing, his eyes streaming a little. In that small moment, he had been his happiest, curled half into Lisa's warm, not daring to believe that he was hers, and not nearly audacious enough to believe that the boy tagged 'James' could possibly be a product of his clumsy, loving ministrations.

His eyes are open when he pictures it. It overwhelms his sense of sight, and he is blinded instead by Lisa's exalted smile.

"Tell me what you're thinking about, Waylon."

He keeps himself in the strange state of stasis between the present and the memory, finding that his mouth is smart enough to do the describing without his mind having to be pulled from the sleepy ward. By some happy accident, he gets out, "I'm thinking about when my son James was born. After, when I was in the hospital with-"

"With your wife?"

"Yeah."

The therapist seems to react to that. He writes something down, and doesn't say anything. It's another trait that the man shares with Jeremy –this awful taciturnity that leaves Waylon paranoid and nervous, like he's said or done the wrong thing. After a while, he pipes up.

"I want you to think of your happiest memory when you were alone, now. And I want you to tell me how long ago it was."

Alone. Alone? Waylon has never been very good by himself. He falls into poor habits, he forgets to eat, and doesn't leave the house. Not just that, but it's been so long since he was by himself. There was that day or so respite he had before Miles came along, making him afraid to breathe in his own right. But not at Berkley, and Lisa came along right at the end. They only had a year of living together before he came home to her, feet up on the coffee table, heaving a sigh and a _'Way, I've got some news.'_.

He was lonely growing up. But he was also unhappy. Though, after a while of labouring, he finds a memory. Small, but it seems enough.

"Back in 2001. When I built my first computer."

The therapist makes a noise of surprise. "Waylon, you're telling me the last time you made yourself happy was thirteen years ago." All he can do is shrug. He doesn't like to think about it. Or talk about it. By now, it's not important, anyway. "That's okay." The man says. "But I have another task for you."

Waylon listens willingly. He's got so much time on his hands, he might well do something.

"I want you to have a conversation with someone who isn't me, or Lisa, or any of your children. I want you to develop an interpersonal relationship with someone new. You can pick who you want, and start as small as you want, but I want you to tell me about it the next time we meet. I that something you'd like to do?"

Waylon's demand characteristics speak out before he can negate the suggestion. "Sure."

But New York is big, and busy and dangerous. Waylon doesn't know anyone, or even how to begin remedying that. And the one thing he has as a talking point is the one thing he can't bring himself to put into words.

The suggestion is impossible. Yet, what he hears himself say is. "I can do that."

-

When Miles returns from a swim in the hotel's pool, he expects solace.

He has lived alone for so long, it seems strange to try to curb old habits. Miles doesn't own a pair of headphones –he can always play what he likes aloud. He doesn't do a weekly shop. The only thing in his cupboards is cereals, for when he has no time between leads to sit and prepare himself a meal. And he never has to worry about coming home loud, or drunk or angry, because there's nobody there to annoy.

It's only after throwing the door to 103 shut with a slam that he sees a pair of feet dangling over the edge of the sofa that he realises Waylon is still there. As he crosses the room, laying his jacket on the armchair, he realises that the gentle twitches are a product of Waylon's dreams, most likely. The man is out cold, and Miles is damn glad.

It's one less thing to worry about.

The television is still playing, so he settles down to watch a little, still cold from the pool water. Miles likes to keep moving. He always has. It has always served him well in the field, and even in Mount massive. He's always believed that if he can move his body as quickly as his mouth or his mind, he can get himself out of most tight spots.

But it seems to him that the tightest spot of all is avoiding the pitiful little man sleeping on the chair to his left.

Waylon doesn't look like he expect him to look. Maybe –maybe Miles doesn't know exactly what he expected at first. But the man had survived that place, so he had to be smart enough, and quick enough. He had to be the kind brave enough to defy corporations. In Miles' head, the 'whistleblower' was supposed to be tall and strapping and witty. And Waylon doesn't seem to be any of those things.

It's unfair to project a fantasy onto anyone. And Miles only imagined that as a way to get himself through that place, hoping that whenever he turned a corner, a sane man would usher him into a secret escape route and he wouldn't have to endure any more.

Waylon was useless. And as a result, Miles was there to the bitter end.

He tries not to dwell on it. After seeing the headline on the new York Times, Miles had done a little prowling on the internet after his futile wander to the church, and managed to find some pretty in-detail accounts of Waylon's footage. He didn't watch it –he knew he couldn't, but the descriptions were more than enough.

The cannibal in the kitchen –the basketball game –worse still, Gluskin...

Miles doesn't know all of what happened. The accounts are very patchy, and he's not fool enough to actually ask Waylon, but from what he understands, it was preferable to end up in Trager's 'ward' than Gluskin's 'chapel'.

The thoughts make him shift in his seat, and they make him so uncomfortable that he propels himself to standing and wanders back towards the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Finding no cereal, he turns and plants himself at the kitchen diner, rolling an orange between his left and right hands, with no intention of eating it.

A photograph across from him catches his attention. He squints at it, trying to deduce what it depicts. It takes him a whole minute to recognise Waylon, and the rest, he guesses, are his family. Though, he's sitting awfully close to the brunette for her to be a sister.

For just a second, Miles starts to feel guilty about punishing the man so much, until h hears a pained cry, and the guilt falls away into panic.

He turns just in time to hear the dull thud, and then awful groans of pain.

Miles doesn't waste time, he drops the orange and dives over the sofa, trying to get a better look at what's going on. And when he does, he hardly understands what he sees.

Waylon's eyes appear to be open. His view is pbstructed by the hands Waylon has thrown up as if in defence of his skull. His whole body is throwing itself around wildly –one leg tenses and straight, the other curled in, convulsing. His torso is heaved up and down hard against the wood floor, but worst of all are the noises he's making. These awful, frightened little whimpers. Waylon doesn't respond to Miles when he touches his arm. As if he doesn't notice.

It's terrifying.

Miles tries to move around the prop the man up somehow, but every violent convulsion fights his grip. There seems to be no stopping it, and it's getting worse. His legs kick out, savagely, knocking the end table and causing the lamp on it to smash into little pieces. Fragments of the bulb are scattered everywhere, but even the noise doesn't do anything to stop Waylon,

His body throws itself onto the side and begins to buck more –perhaps even worse, and when one of Waylon's arms tenses up, straight out, Miles can see that his nose is running fierce with blood.

At a loss, he tries taking Waylon's shoulders and shouting at him, punctuating the words with a good shake. "Park?" He shakes harder, feeling the familiar feeling of helplessness and horror burning inside his lungs. "Park, c'mon!"

Waylon's lips are now gleaming with blood, and there is no sign of the convulsions ceasing. The noises he's making only seem to get worse. Miles doesn't know what to do. It frightens him, the very sight of it. Is Waylon going to die? Is this what it looks like when the trauma gets too much?

Miles swallows, and tries to think of something to do. Uselessly, he heaves Waylon onto his back, and kneels, carrying the man's body as best he can with the violence of the movements. Some part of him, some faraway part that still has sympathy for Waylon wonders if the man can hear him, and it prompts words to come to him.

"You better not fucking die on me." He breathes, fighting against Waylon's spasms as he heads for the bathroom, down the hall. It's not that the man is heavy at all, but awkward to hold, and there are a few moments when Miles is certain he'll drop him. With all his might, he kicks open the door and drops Waylon into the tub as gracefully as he can.

All he can think of is shock. Trying to pull Waylon out of it by giving him a shock. But noise isn't working, even when Miles' is screaming, shaking the man hard. "Goddamnit!" He falls slack against the ceramic.

The only idea he has left is to hose the guy down with the showerhead. It seems preposterous, but Waylon looks and sounds as if he's having some kind of aneurism, and Miles is too damn scared to know what else to do.

He leans over Waylon, fighting his own damn inertia, and starts up the jet, starting at Waylon's feet, and watching the water spread around him like some kind of atlantic halo.

Miles doesn't want to watch him die. He doesn't know if he can take it, and focuses hard on the man's bare feet, still human in colour, but marble-heavy. He wants to imagine Waylon swimming in beautiful Nauset, where bean green pours over blue, rather than soaking, spasming violently in some hotel bathtub, his clothes tightening around him like a bag full of god, a head in the freakish atlantic.

It never seems to end. Miles sits, slumped against the side of the tub for hours, holding the showerjet in his left hand, his face buried in the crook of his right. He daren't look at Waylon until it seems like forever has passed. Most of the blood has washed off of the man's face, and the convulsions have stopped altogether.

But he shows no signs of waking up.

Miles hates feeling responsible. He despises own uselessness at all of it, most of all, and as some kind of penance he remains by the side of the tub for what seems to be hours. The groans stop eventually. The body –Waylon's body, lies still, the edges of his clothes dark with water.

Some years later, in Miles' mind, he hears the gentle sound of splashing water, and a low, pained grumble. He gets himself onto his knees to get a better look at things, and damn near cries when Waylon's eyes flutter a little, and then focus on him.

The man is shivering, but calm and conscious, and Miles swallows –it's all he can do not to laugh.

"W-why am I in the bath?" Waylon gets out. He tries to pull himself to sitting, but appears to weak to do so, and falls slack, in a lean, against the ceramic. "I didn't –didn't-"

Miles gets himself to standing. He wipes down his face, and then remembers where he stands with Waylon. "You fell." He says, quietly, unsure of how to describe it. "Off the sofa. You fell, and started having some kind of fit. Y'were shaking and –and your eyes were open."

Waylon seems to be having a hard time processing it. He peels away the sleeve of his shirt, stuck to his arm, and frowns, sleepily, as if emerging from a dream. "Then how'd I get in the bath?"

Miles swallows. "I put you there." It's then he laughs, mostly at himself. It's no wonder he tries to keep level-headed if this is how he acts when he's scared –putting Waylon in a bathtub and not a bed, or somewhere smarter. "I figured it'd wake you up." He gets out, awkwardly. "I didn't know what else to do. It made sense at the time."

For a second, it looks as if Waylon is going to fall back against the bath and pass out into sleep. But he seems to sight the heaviness of his fatigue, nodding very slowly, slurring out his words. "Than-thanks." He mumbles. One slack arm tries to push him to standing, and nearly fails, when Miles heaves him out, pulling the man's arm around his neck and essentially dragging him.

The water gets into Miles collar. He pretends not to notice it. Eventually, they make it to Waylon's bedroom, and Miles lays him out on the bed. Not a bit of him intends to do anything about Waylon's wet clothes. It's no longer his problem.

He watches Waylon curl in on himself and try to gain back some body heat, and Miles starts to feel awfully intrusive. He swallows again, and backpedals out of the room, pausing in the doorway, wondering if maybe Waylon needs an antidepressant or an aspirin, at least.

So far, his 'expertise' has done nothing but half-drown a man, so he settles on, "Night." Because it seems appropriate at the time.

He hears a soft, "Night, Leese." And says nothing about it.

He takes a Zoloft with a little glass of vodka, and it helps to ease his mind as he watched the television flicker, only listening to snippets. At some time he wander into his bedroom and passes out, having no dreams at all, but having assurances fed to him by his own unconscious.

The whole night, he thinks to himself, '_at least I made it out with my sanity'_.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes to snow.

No dreams or visions of hell, and when he comes to he's lucid as a floodlight. The only thing that lingers from the night before is a headache, dull and aching.

Waylon sits himself up in the sheets slowly, yawning, stretching out. The cold air makes him realise how cold is clothes are –made slightly heavier by some damp that permeates his clothes and some of his sheets. It isn't like Waylon to fall asleep still dressed. And it's even more out-of-character for his clothes to be damp.

He yawns again, and falls slack in the sheets. Some obscene smile comes for him and overwhelms him –because his heartbeat sounds like _fri-day_, and tomorrow she's coming.

It's the only driving force behind him getting out of bed, and dressing himself –fighting to get a trouserleg over his cast, as he has done so many times. He even considers shaving –although there's nothing much to shave as it is. For a few minutes, he gets a little caught up in his vanity, and then reminds himself to focus on his goals. His little list.

It's a good guideline for getting through the day. It reminds him to eat –or, at least try. And to take his medications, and to try to leave the place for at least a little while. Maybe go for a walk or wander into town. It's a good place to try and start up that interpersonal relationship, he thinks.

Eventually, he wanders out to the hall, limping towards the sound of a voice. He recognises it as Miles', and fears that the man is trying to talk to him, until he realises that Miles is on the phone. Not the hotel telephone, either, but to somebody else. A friend, or something else, Waylon doesn't know, but he listens anyway, worried to find Miles in one of his darker moods.

To his surprise, he hears Miles laugh for the first time in his whole life.

"No –no, c'mon, I'm _serious_." The laugh is light and playful –the very antithesis of what Waylon knows the man as. What had he expected? The man is a human being –or a very close approximation. "Come down. Come down sometime. God knows you owe me-..._hey_..." The laughter never lasts long, and all of a sudden Miles sounds pained.

"I _know_ we're not –I'm not asking to fuck you, _jesus_! I jus' want to –to see you, is all. You're my only..." Then, Miles heaves a sigh and from the hall Waylon can see his body leant heavy with regret and tension. "You're the only one who _ever_-"

The thought never does get finished.

Miles remains stooped, staring at the floor as the other voice crawls through the black telephone. "Yeah." He says, now vaguely, having lost all of his previous conviction. "I lo-" For one moment, something awful tries to worm it's way up from Mile's chest but he swallows fast and catches it before it sneaks out. "I'll quit bothering you. Would you –would you call me, sometime?"

The call seems to end abruptly, and all it leaves is Miles, down folded over like a sad, sober sheet of paper. He looks at the phone in his hand for a second too long, and then lets out a furious growl, pitching it like a baseball against the wall. On impact, the wall dents, visibly, and Waylon hears the phone shatter.

At first, he thinks Miles is simply over-reacting to a mere banality, not picking up on the subtext, until he sees that Miles' shoulders are sagging.

Waylon draws back when he realises that Miles is actually crying.

It's so easy to forget about the lives of others. Ever since Waylon sent that damn email he has insulated himself from everything else with constant, reinforcing thoughts of who he is tied to. That's all. He never considered the ties of the ones locked up in that place, insane. He never even considered to whom the worst belonged. And not once did he think of Miles as having a past or a future, just an eight-fingered man remaining in some kind of limbo.

Waylon feels tremendous guilt for many things –for surviving, for Miles' damn fingers –and, even now, for his tears.

Like a traitor, or some kind of wrong hushed-up, he swallows, and retreats a little, waiting for Miles to storm off into the snow or the confines of his room. Then and there, Waylon sure doesn't want his attention –he seems to always take the brunt of Miles' frustration. He's got the luck of a Kennedy.

Miles doesn't give up the fight easily. Half of his face is turned towards Waylon, and hard, thick lines creep out of his neck and he strives to keep all of that pain and fury inside. His eyes glisten, a wobbling photo of grief; and his face is white. With a hard sniff, he lets his mouth fall open.

He turns away from Waylon and says, in a voice that has been ironed out, but not naturally malleable, "I know you're there, Park."

It makes Waylon feel even more guilty. He panics, horribly, and steps out into the sitting area, wanting to say something to console the man, or at least not sound insensitive, but all he does is stare hard at the laminate. "I wasn't-"

Feeling no obligation to listen, Miles hisses. "Shut up." Then he wipes at his face furiously, and jams his fists into his pockets, going over to the fridge as if something inside of it will solve his problems. Waylon hasn't a clue what to do or say –everything is the wrong thing.

He settles on just looking at Miles. It's safer; or so he thinks, until Miles sniffs again and curses at him.

"Don't you dare pity _me_, Park." Then he lets out a nasty laugh and shakes his head. "I ought to feel sorry for you."

Waylon is too tired to feel threatened. If Miles was going to cut him up into little pieces when he was asleep, or throttle him to death, he would have done it by now. His anger –bitter as it is, is something to be taken as a good sign. Waylon crosses the kitchen area, blandly, and says, "Then why don't you?"

Quick to bite, but having no witticism ready in that moment, Miles hisses, "Why don't I _what_?"

"Feel sorry for me." It's not his own bravery. He's just thinking about what Lisa would say. She was never afraid of anybody –always had a point to make, never stuttered or said the wrong thing. And Waylon has spent enough time with her to borrow some of that courage.

For a second, it seems like he really has stumped Miles, but the man is used to dealing with tight-lipped clients, and knows how to turn a conversation. "I've got better things to do." He mutters.

The tears have mostly cleared up by now. He still looks as dour as usual, but it seems to be his default state –and Waylon cannot be held accountable for that. The man's eyes are still a little red: they're like to be, but he doesn't seem especially torn up about it.

Waylon gets past him and pours himself a cool glass of water, staring out at the snow from the large windows. He keeps Miles in the corner of his eyes, wary of the man's temper flaring again, watching him retrieve the solid pieces of his phone. When the man stands up, slumping against the wall, he says the last thing Waylon expects to hear.

With a pathetic, heavy sigh, Miles barely murmurs, "I'm sorry."

After all this time, Waylon didn't think he had it in him. He turns, in pure shock, and it's only then he takes full notice of the man –not some furious force of nature, and not some famed reporter whose email he could snag off of the man's homepage, but a victim. He's got sad, tired eyes, and shaky hands where his fingers where wrenched from his knuckles like a plant at the root. Worse still are the longer, fresher lines that go up his arms.

Does Miles want to die? To become as sharp and essential as the blade of a knife?

But all he says is, "I didn't used to be like this."

When Miles' voice returns, there is this awful threat of some other emotion, different from hatred and anger, coming out, and it sounds so strange in Miles' voice that it takes Waylon a long time to place.

Helplessness. He didn't use to be like this.

And the only reason Waylon can recognise it –and be horrified by the notion all at once is because he is the same. He didn't used to be so angry, or so scared of his own shadow. Once, he wanted to _live_, where now it would be a dream to be alive.

Waylon doesn't really want to ask –but Miles tells him anyway.

"I'm so angry all the fucking time." He says, resolutely. "And it's stupid, I know, but every time I look at you I think of that goddamn place and –_fuck_!" Despairingly, he kicks at a chair, unable to make sense of his own thoughts.

Something aligns. Miles manages an explanation. "What happened to me is somebody's fault, and you're the only person I have left to blame."

It never occurred to Waylon that he should be happy to have seen it unravel. That he knows the who and what and why –all the variables. He never considered the catharsis in watching Blaire die –horribly...so horribly it makes him sick in the night, covered in sweat as thick as blood. Miles came blindly, unprepared for what he saw. In Miles' mind, Waylon must be the only variable, and by default, the guilty party.

He understands. But what's done is done, and they are victims, not foils.

Waylon goes to offer some words –aphorisms or not, Miles objects with a hand.

He peels his jacket off of the chair and says "Don't say a word."

And Waylon doesn't say a word. Not when Miles puts the jacket on, and not when he departs, leaving Waylon confused and guilty and alone.

Waylon doesn't go looking for him.

-

After the incident, Waylon takes his pills and then a shower.

The hotel telephone rings for him –somebody is being sent over to take him to the hospital, to take off the cast. The news makes him giddy, and he towels off at a record rate, ignoring the idea of lunch. His focus is solely on getting better –and how much Lisa will see he's recovered, and how fast everything will just fall back into place.

It'll be true if he believes it.

The car comes around about an hour later, and he rides in a giddy silence, only using one crutch, glad to know he will no longer need it.

He's still not used to the feel of hospitals, even after staying in one. As a child, he was often ill, but only with fevers and colds –nothing that warranted a trip to the emergency room, or even an overnight stay. The idea still scares him. As if they'll find another reason to incapacitate him.

They arrive shortly. The man next to him gets out first to open his door –just like when he arrived in New York. Only this time, Waylon treads more confidently onto the snow. He shuffles along, the suited man keeping pace with him as some kind of cordiality. A room is already prepared when they arrive, and they walk further until Waylon can sit on an examination table.

His last x-rays are visible on the walls. The bones have largely healed, he thinks, and it's all the other things that will need time and movement left to worry about. A physician comes in and asks him a few questions –for once, Waylon answers in detail, wanting to speed the process along.

Then comes out a saw.

It's not a bonesaw. The blade is blunt, and he's told that the vibrations are what break the cast, but it makes him very tense nonetheless. He doesn't watch the cast being cut, but thinks of something else entirely.

He thinks of taking the stairs up to the room. And showering, not bathing. Walking with Lisa and the kids and letting them play in the snow. All the good things.

Eventually, the cast gives, and it is peeled away. Waylon is no expert –he doesn't know what to expect. Aside from the bluish-white of the ankle, it looks relatively normal.

"We're going to test your range of motion now, Mister Park." Is Waylon's only warning. He hears the word 'test' and begins to worry. "Can you move your foot around for me? Easy does it."

It is something Waylon puts an enormous amount of effort into. He can more it –thereabouts, but in no way like he used to. It's something that horrifies him. Such a simple action, and he's practically sweating.

Then comes the second test. "Can you curl your toes for me, now?"

Waylon thinks about curling his toes. He thinks hard, and while his toes flinch slightly, they do nothing close to curling. It makes Waylon panic –he presses harder, trying desperately to transform the stuttering little movements into a real action.

What's worse is that it gets the physician's attention. "Alright. Okay. Would you like to try and stand?"

There's no invitation to wait for. He pushes himself off of the table and leans heavy of his left foot, before trying to step forward.

His right foot doesn't respond very well. It doesn't curl or lift like it would if he could walk normally, and it's distressing to put his whole weight on it, but Waylon perseveres, sweating some more, forcing himself to take three or so steps, striving to make them appear casual and painless.

"How does that feel?"

"Great." He says, slightly winded.

The physician hums and writes a few more notes on his chart. "It looks like some nerve dysfunction. It's nothing serious, but if it becomes painful, you may want to get back in touch."

Waylon doesn't care much for the details. It sounds an extreme penance for trying to escape certain death on a weak ankle. Or –perhaps it's simply the lesser or two fates. Had he given up, and let the pain of the initial injury slow him to a stop, Gluskin would have –would have strung him up, or done _awful_ things to him-..._he had to outrun the blade..._

"Can I walk on it?" Is all he can manage to say.

"Certainly." Is his answer. "Don't exercise to rigorously, but taking short walks might be good to get the muscle back into use again. Alot of people with nerve damage in their leg joints have canes to relieve the pressure." The man gives a frivolous little laugh as if the idea entertains him. "Something you might want to consider."

It makes Waylon furious. So much so that he feels silly to speak, and remains silent for the rest of the appointment. The physician makes another comment, briefly, on his zyprexa and citalopram, noting that Waylon is probably 'already doped up enough as it is', and fails to prescribe anything for possible discomfort.

The paperwork is signed off, and the man hands his crutch back to him.

"I'll likely be seeing you in a few weeks, Mister Park." The physician says, as he places the crutch in Waylon's hand. "Take it easy."

The only thing Waylon can think to do, out of pure juvenility and spite, is to walk back to the car. It is painful and awkward, but he places one foot in front of the other, determine to prove his competence as a human being.

As they near the car, his escort asks him in a worried voice, "Mister Park, are you sure-"

"I'm doing_ fine_." Waylon says.

It'll be true if he believes it.

-

Believers are sitting outside the church today. It's open.

Miles is supposed to be having another session, but left a note on the coffee table, stating that perhaps it was best they saw other people. It's taken him more than an hour to getback to the same church, so the therapist is likely long gone. It doesn't matter to him –he came all this way for another reason.

As a child, he remembers his mother lighting a cigarette outside of the church in his hometown, where he met her after school to walk to the car together. He's asked her why he liked the church so much –because she wasn't particularly pious or evangelical.

She'd said it was the furnishings. "All of that warmth and cold, and somebody who speaks in a nice soft voice to you. It's like nothing bad can happen to you so long as you're there." A year after, they'd moved again, and the only church in the town was a protestant one –cold on the inside, with pastors who had mean voices and judgmental eyes.

That's why it has to be a catholic church. That's why it has to be this one.

The inside is just like she described. There's no service on, but a few people are sitting in the pews, scattered around, praying. An altar boy in putting something on the altar. A choir is rehearsing and their voices fill the space so pleasantly that it dulls the ache in Miles' head.

It feels like home to him. Mostly because of his mother, and partly because he is an apostle, however reluctant, and it seems logical to come here.

Miles has come for a reason, though. He takes in the splendour of the church for a few minutes before locating the confessional, and heading inside.

It has been years, and yet the actions come back to him like old friends. Miles makes the sign of the cross and hears himself say, "Forgive me, father." He doesn't want to talk about his sins yet, so he goes straight to saying. "My last confession was nine years ago."

This priest doesn't read a scripture. Miles thinks he probably doesn't have any fresh ones to hand, but considering the bible is so old, and the priest has probably been doing this a while, he doesn't hold it against the guy.

All the man says is, "What are your sins?"

This is the part Miles hasn't worked out how to phrase. The things he's done –the really bad stuff; he doesn't consider those sins. And, after all, he hasn't killed anybody with intent. Not really. Billy –god, seeing that guy held together by bits of wire...he was granting Billy a mercy. Trager practically killed himself.

It's the small stuff that eats away at him. It's the look in Park's damn eyes, and it's the person he sees in the mirror.

Miles settles on, "Anger, I guess." It's too vague, even by his own standards, so he pushes himself to continue. "I take my anger out on people who don't deserve it. And I can't –I don't want to do anything anymore, because it just makes me worse."

"Do you know what causes your anger, my child?"

Miles laughs, mostly at himself. "It's a long story."

His mother would chide him. That isn't how you talk to a priest. Confession is supposed to be solemn. It's supposed to be about honesty, but Miles doesn't want to talk about Mount Massive, and honestly, lies would serve him better here.

He sighs. "I saw -lots of...things I don't think _anybody_ ought to see. And a lot of bad things happened to me –and all I can think is; why me? I was-..." Miles swallows. "I was just trying to do some job, and then all of these horrible things started happening, and I don't even know if I'd rather have died anymore. Like, if that would've been better for me."

Miles feels himself becoming emotional again. He doesn't fight it –all of the thing he had to repress in that place need a way of coming out, or he knows they will destroy him.

"I'm angry because it's not _fair_." He says, with conviction. "I want my life back. I want to enjoy living again, for Chrissake!" Thankfully, the priest lets his blasphemy go, sensing a larger issue. "And I'm scared of what it's gonna turn me into –I don't want to go nuts, and end up in a place like that, and I don't want to die, but it's _all_ I think about."

The priest's voice has some authority to it, and an unshakeable calm that encourages Miles to take deeper breaths. "Have you abandoned your beliefs because of this?"

Confused, Miles scrubs his face with his right hand. "Whatever God there is abandoned me long before that."

The priest doesn't comment on that, either, and Miles is grateful. He doesn't want semantics, and artifice. He wants some kind of penance, so that he can feel redeemed sometime in the future.

"Have you considered the Lord may be testing you?"

"What for?"

The priest takes in another big breath that Miles practically feels the relief of. "The Lord tests us for many reasons. To test our faith. To teach us more about ourselves." The priest pauses for a moment, and says, "If I am honest, it is...difficult to see the higher purpose in suffering, and sometimes one must trust the Lord without sight."

Miles sighs. He examines the stump of his finger and says, "I'm just not sure if I can follow blindly anymore."

The priest says, "I see." And then swallows. "Pray to the Lord that your trials may end, but speak honestly."

Miles swallows. "That's_ all_? No 'hail marys', or anything like that?"

The priest lets out a small chuckle. "If you would not follow blindly, I did not think it wise for you to pray blindly." It makes Miles feel –well, for one thing, better. Cleaner. To have had his punishment interpreted. He hears the parting words, "Give thinks to the Lord, for He is good."

Miles stands. He hears himself recite ritual just like a child again. "His mercy endures forever."

"The Lord has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

Miles half-opens the confessional door before pausing, like an idiot, and mumbling. "Thanks –thank-you."

He doesn't pray in the church. Miles leaves behind the warm and the gold and the safety of the place, out into the cold where the snow is falling heavy. It's a long walk back, and he's only wearing a thin jacket, but figures it will be a long enough amount of time to come up with something to say to whatever god there might be.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he thinks long and hard about how you open a prayer.

_Fuck it_, Miles concludes. He walks to the nearest starbucks and buys two coffees instead.

-

Waylon only realises they're out of instant coffee when he has a whole lot of boiling water that he has no use for.

It leaves him standing in the kitchen, unsure of what to do with himself. He can't be bothered with food today, entirely preoccupied with things he should buy or do to get the place ready for Lisa –like the coming of a prophet.

The very idea of her coming –steaming over an ocean, it seems, over states and powerlines to see him seems so surreal. It's all he can think about –the sound of her heels on airport floor. The sound of James using his voice, and Colin still searching for his. Any suggestion that they are close makes him so stilled, and centred, but it scared him, too. He feels unready.

Without coffee, he feels significantly drained, but does his best in walking, albeit slow, around the room, trying to put things away where he thinks they belong, making the place look a bit neater. It still isn't home, but the photographs on the sides and on the tables make the whole look less sterile. Some of Miles' things are out n the sitting area –a few shirts, his laptop, and yesterdays newspaper, presumably read. For fear of the repercussions, he lets them remain.

After having done all that he can think to, he limps back to the kitchen table and sits. He thinks about doing some old scripting exercises to pass the time, and warm him back up, but he feels tired, and without the promise of money, the task seems so much less rewarding. Exhausted, he leans heavy on one arm, and shuts his eyes.

When his cell phone begins to ring, he rears his head, suddenly aware that he had fallen asleep. The cell is only a few counters away, so he walks to it and answers t, mid-yawn, not bothering to inspect the caller ID.

"Hullo?" Waylon mumbles, seriously considering his bed.

"Hey," The voice at the end of the line, Lisa, thrills every damn instinct in his body and he damn-near laughs at how glad just the sound makes him. "Did I wake you?"

"Not a bit." Waylon says. He isn't sure why he lies, but that's what comes out. One hand rubs his eyes, faintly, but it does nothing to wipe off the smile on his face. "Are you still coming up tomorrow?"

The tone he manages is casual, but not by necessity. The weight of his entire world rests on that question. He can feel the ever-presence of madness as her only replacement. It takes focus to steady his breaths, and not let on his anticipation.

Lisa says, "You think you could get away so easily?" It makes Waylon want to laugh hysterically. "The flight leaves at eleven or something. We'll be there before you have time to clean up."

"They have room service." He says, half in jest. "And hotel food."

Lisa laughs at that. "Are you telling me you've been living it up for a whole week without us? Now I'm _definitely_ going to have to come up and spoil your fun." There' no truth to it. Waylon knows that she will come down, and bring his boys, and the world will start to move again, and it will start to make sense again.

He exhales, peacefully, and smiles. "I've really missed you. I don't –I hate being away from you and the boys."

It's not his intention to make her feel sorry for him, or to put her in an awkward position, but when all he had was that camcorder, saying these things aloud always seems to set them in stone. It seemed to make them true, and so Waylon can barely stop himself from speaking.

But Lisa is tougher than that. And all the more wonderful. "It's only for a little while longer." She promises, in a whisper. "Until then, just try to forget."

The idea of it is preposterous, but the sentiment is what he registers. Lisa has seen his footage, he knows. Against all of his wishes, but somehow appealing to his sense of reason. It helps her to understand –even if the footage doesn't show the worst of it all.

All Waylon can think to say is, "I love you, Lisa."

He hears the smile in her voice once more. "You know I love you, too." There is another brief pause. "You want to talk to the boys?"

For some reason, Waylon nods like it's obvious what he wants, before realising the shortcomings of the cell phone, an saying, "Put me on speakerphone."

"Alright."

There's a rustle at the end of the line, which leads him to assume he's through. The silence extends for a second and Waylon suddenly wonders what he'll say if the boys ask him where he's been, and what he's sick with, and why he isn't better.

What he hears instead are two very excited, very tiny voices, who chorus in unison. "Dad!" Waylon's heart hurts all the more for it. He manages to swallow the break in his voice, and get out words.

"Hey," He says, breathlessly, fighting memories each voice pulls from him. "Are you guys behaving yourselves?"

The question is ignored. Colin is too young to like to talk much, and probably doesn't understand the question, and so let's James take the reins. "Dad, when are you coming back from holiday?"

Waylon nearly asks until he realises it's likely the only explanation Lisa has managed to come up with to explain his absence. It sure sounds nicer than other harder words like trauma, and convalescence, and therapy.

"I'll be back soon, i promise. It's just a little longer –only a little." He sighs. "You look after your mom for me, alright?"

The boys sigh, dramatically, and James murmurs, "Yes, Dad."

"And if you're really good, I might take you to see the dinosaurs in the museum tomorrow."

"The dinosaurs!" The boy's voice is alight with such complete excitement that Waylon can't help himself from laughing. It brings him joy to know that for all of his guilt, at least to someone he is the world.

"Alright." He says, assuring himself. "Alright, but you have to be good. And I'll be asking your mom." Leaning hard on the table, he says. "I'll see you in a few hours." But never dares to believe it. It almost scares him –will they see how hard he's trying? Or find his attempts fall short?

In a smaller voice, he says, "I love you." To all of them.

There are two small voices that say, "Bye, dad." Separately, this time, so he can hear Colin's nervous voice –he really doesn't like to talk much, but Waylon remembers being the same for most of his childhood.

Lisa's voice is so still and certain when she her voice steams down the phone, laughing on the glass. "I love you too, Way."

The call ends, and he falls forward onto the table, nervous and giddy but also sad. When he can hear their voices, it's so much easier to pretend they're here, and that everything is normal. Without coffee, Waylon doesn't think he'll manage to stay conscious for a bath, and he doesn't watch television.

The only thing left to do is play solitaire again, or sleep –and only one promises dreamlessness. He sets up the deck of cards and remembers playing a few cards before passing out on the table, dog-tired.

He doesn't know how long he sleeps. All he knows is that there are no dreams, and his desperate fatigue is alleviated somewhat. Outside, the sky is dark and the snow practically glows in the dark, and he wonders if he is alone. Behind him, the television is on at a gentle volume, but there is nobody watching it.

Waylon rears his head and finds his cards moderately as he remembers them. But that isn't what catches his attention.

What does is the small starbucks cup, now cold, placed on the table in front of him, with his name in messy cursive on the front. He drinks it anyway.

For the time being, the gesture is lost on Waylon, too tired to consider the value of it. The coffee is much too bitter and cold for his liking.

But it would not be his last cup.


	6. Chapter 6

That morning, the sun isn't even visible.

Miles catches some of the headlines on his laptop, noting with interest the hyperbolic mendacity of the tagline 'worst snowstorm in decades'.

Out of the window, even the furious yellow of the taxi cab is somewhat muted by the density of the snow. Sidewalks are piled with it. Pedestrians have to take enormous steps and sink when they put their weight down. The roads have been cleared, but despite the grit, snow is starting to settle again Heaps of dirty white snow are in piles in the sidewalk. The city is in standstill.

Miles finds it telling, then, that the first thing he feels is despair that is the snow doesn't let up, he will have nowhere to go to escape the condescension of his therapist.

He has nowhere to be today. The church is more like to be closed than anything else, and he has had enough of the cold. For a few moments, he simply lies on his back, at a loss.

It makes him uneasy. When Miles lived alone, he barely had time to notice. Everything was always a great rush –almost a race. Clients to interview early, resources to double-check. It was always a mad dash between supermarkets and the bank the library a few towns over and anywhere he could find somebody bold enough to quote. On the days Miles had nought to do at all; it meant he had no money coming in. Even now, when finances aren't an issue, the lethargy makes him nervous.

Unsure of what else to do, he orders a breakfast –something more extravagant than he'd ever pay for, but he isn't paying, and considers a shower. It's only by agency of his previous lifestyle that he never spends more than ten or so minutes under the jet, and he probably needs to, but decides to wait until breakfast.

For a second, he thinks about checking his phone, but remembers yesterday's incident. He feels himself heat up immediately, amazed at how quickly he goes from nerves to fury.

It isn't new –whenever Miles thinks about the time he spent, and all of that fucking love he invested –foolishly—it always has a habit of making him sick to death. Now even the man's name is unthinkable to use.

When there's a knock on the door, Miles is practically sweating. He walks out into the sitting area in his underwear –a habit of living alone, glad to find the space empty. The porter doesn't wait around for a tip, probably aware that Miles doesn't carry his wallet on him dressed like that, and he leaves.

There's no coffee left to drink. Miles eats at the table with a glass of orange juice and his amitip, sarotena and Zoloft. The pills don't bother him anymore. He hasn't thought about killing himself again since they started to work.

The cuts on his arms have healed nicely. There will always be scars –Miles was severe when he used the razorblade, cutting as hard and deep as he could –but he doesn't mind them so much. Scars are no longer a novelty to him, and they will have faded by the time summer rolls around and he wears anything that can show them off.

He's ravenous this morning –finishing breakfast in his characteristic hurry. When it's done, he leaves the tray in the hallway, by the door, and brings his laptop to the table to read his emails. He doesn't own a pair of headphones, and shuffles some album from his iTunes while he's skimming over topics.

There are more than a few emails about Murkoff –all of them asking with such ease if Miles can report something. As if it would be so straight-forward. He never has liked autobiographical work, and he would never discuss half of what he saw to his own priest because he knows he wouldn't be believed.

He's reading so closely that he barely notices another presence –until the man's voice comes out of nowhere.

"Thankyou." It comes suddenly, and Miles jumps damn mile –his hands flying to his face, his legs tensing up and sending him about a foot backwards, the chair grating along the floor. When he realises it's just Waylon, his alarm ceases, but the tension still keeps him in a practical rigour mortis.

He pulls his chair forward and exhales shakily. "Jesus fucking _Christ_, Park. You want _me_ to jump out at _you_?"

Waylon doesn't say anything. He's drawn back, a little, but remains looking at Miles with those sad little yes of his. In a voice more akin to a whisper than anything else, he says, "Sorry."

The whole incident makes Miles frustrated. He can't even think why , but already, he's getting irritable about Waylon being around. The man isn't even an annoyance –Miles barely knows he's there most of the time. If anything, he's a spooky figure, standing there with his gaunt face wasting away all the time. In fact, he's still standing by Miles, and it's making him feel self-conscious about being in his underwear.

Too proud to admit insecurity, he glares up at Waylon and waves a hand. "There something else you wanted?"

Waylon's eyes are on the floor now. It's as if he's afraid Miles is going to chastise him some more. Why is he so defeatist? That kind of attitude would have only led to his death quicker. There must be some fight in him, somewhere.

"I just wanted to say thanks. For the coffee I mean."

Miles' very first instinct is to devolve into bitterness or sarcasm, but before anything venomous can come out, he catches himself. Waylon hasn't said anything at all confrontational, or worthy of his anger –in fact, he's trying to be pleasant.

It takes Miles a very difficult moment, but he manages to get out a calm voice. "S'alright." He mumbles, and closes the tab for his email.

He tries to ignore Waylon, for the most part, but the sight of the man makes him feel a range of different things –anger, discomfort, jealousy. Not that Miles would ever wish to be Waylon Park over any other human being, but the pictures of his _happy family_ and his _smiling children_ and _his lovely marriage_ make him more than a little envious. Miles has nobody at all.

It's a little sad to admit that if Miles had died –in that awful place, or simply from bleeding out by his own hand, the bottom would've dropped out of nobody's life. It he died, nobody would have noticed, or gone looking. They would only have found his body on the way to look for Waylon.

He's still standing there, and the thoughts are dissolving Miles' patience. Still desperately trying to attempt civility, he says, "Are you planning to stand there all morning?"

Almost immediately, Waylon sits. "I'm sorry." He says again, and then with just a splinter of hope (Miles only recognises it later), "I guess I was just thinking about something else."

All Waylon has to do is sit there to make Miles uncomfortable. He thinks about heading back into his room and closing the door. At least there he won't feel so desperately uncomfortable. Ultimately, he sticks it out, making himself at least sit, because if Waylon is the only person that he knows in this city (excluding a priest and a therapist, neither of whom make good casual conversation) then he may as well build a tolerance to the man.

He tries to sound approachable when he speaks. "Could you order some more coffee?"

It alarms Waylon when he's being spoken to. The man lifts his head in a panic and nods, speaking all the more quietly again, with his eyes on the floor. "Sure." He rises to go to the telephone, but Miles holds up a hand to stop him.

"You can-.." It's an odd thing to say. Miles is struggling to get out his words, and it only seems to make Waylon look more nervous. "I'm not going to kill you." He tries to sound flippant. "Y'don't have to act so goddamn afraid of me."

However spooky Waylon appears, his smile is actually comforting. "You, uh-" He swallows. "You told me not to talk to you. Is that still-"

Miles sighs. "Don't quote me to myself." It seems to make Waylon even more hesitant. Miles isn't sure what he can say. He decides upon the word he struggles with the most. "I –uh...I'm sorry about –_y'know_. I was pretty mad."

It's not exactly heartfelt, but it has Waylon's attention. He presses on.

"I _know_ you didn't send me on purpose. And you didn't have it any better in there –I do know that." Miles sighs again. "You're the only person in this city that I know. Let's please just be able to have a goddamn conversation like civilised people."

Waylon's eyebrows raise a little, more questioning than tentative.

"And you're not going to-"

"I'm not going to _throttle_ you. Christ, Park, I haven't even had my coffee yet." It's Miles' attempt at a joke –or thereabouts, but it doesn't seem to settle Waylon's moderate unease. Miles watches him go into his room, and dial for room service. He takes it as an opportunity to dress –throwing on anything he can find.

It's not cold in the room. Or not even by much, but Miles doesn't want to send out a mixed message. That, and he doesn't like to invite a comparison. Sure, he's taller than Waylon, and more muscular –not difficult consider the man looks positively famished—but since moving from hospital meals to real food the Zoloft has been making him feel so much more lethargic, and making him put on a little more weight.

Miles isn't vain –but now more than ever he values the feeling of knowing he is strong and fast enough to get away at a moment's notice.

When he emerges, Waylon is sat back at the table, sitting there looking so inert. He supposes that this is all a kind of stasis for Waylon –his life has been paused in order to convalesce, and then when he is with his family things will pick back up again. Miles has nowhere to go back to after this. This _is_ his life.

He comes to sit across from Waylon and drums his fingers awkwardly on the closed lip of his laptop. "So." Absently, he starts. "You're married?" That makes Waylon smile right away. He looks off –not out of timidity, but as if in a dream, and he nods to nothing in particular. "What's her name?"

"Lisa." He says, in that way you can tell he has been saying it for years. Then, as if trying to be polite, he turns to Miles. "And –is there anybody in your-"

"No." Miles has to laugh, or it will make him sick with sorrow. He doesn't think the prostitute counts as a salient figure in his romantic life. Or the few guys he's pulled back to his place on nights off that never stay for coffee. He pulls a weak excuse, "The lifestyle isn't very convenient."

It's a pretty transparent evasion. When the stories sell, they sell well and Miles can live it up with meals out and days to lay in bed. But that happened so rarely that he had to prowl for hours to find anything to make ends meet.

Out of habit, he checks his emails once more to evade the silence. Waylon is staring at some fixed point either on his body or something chilling right behind, and he has enough good sense not to look.

"Can I –..." Something terribly difficult to say keeps half-making it's way out of Waylon's mouth. Eventually, he spits it out. "Did you try to kill yourself?"

Miles barks out a little laugh. "Y'dont pull your punches, do you?"

But the laugh doesn't ring true. It isn't funny, no matter how often he tries to make light of it. And Waylon is still looking at him. It will be easier the more he talks about it, Miles knows, but that doesn't mean he isn't initially resistant.

"I thought –I don't know what I thought." He shrugs, convincing himself of his own disinterest. "It was dumb. I don't really want to talk about it."

Waylon considers him: either hesitant or annoyed –Miles doesn't know him well enough to tell, only to trail off, nodding. "I didn't mean to pry."

He wrinkles his nose, and tries to smile. "It's just a pretty heavy topic to open with. You don't wanna start with movies, or something?"

Miles is trying his best to make an effort. When he used to do journalism internships, he usually made friends easily in the office. It came naturally to him –the others liked his humour and charm, and he didn't mind being agreeable, having grown used to removing alot of the etic from his articles. But Miles has been freelance for longer –he doesn't have any really close friends. Sometimes he'd follow-up on a client and it would be nice, but it's been so long that Miles has had to try. It makes Waylon all the more frustrating.

The knock on the door is practically salvation. Miles tries not to seem too eager when he brings in the tray and has an excuse to fall into silence. It burns his mouth to drink the coffee right away, but he doesn't mind it.

Miles takes his as it is. A little milk, no sugar, two or three espresso shots straight to the brain if he can manage it –hold the hazelnut and all the rest. It wakes him up instantly. Not the caffeine –the heat of it, spreading through him fast.

He's deeply engrossed, when out of nowhere Waylon says, "Back to the future." And then, softer, realising it's a complete non-sequiter. "That's my favourite movie."

Now that he mentions it –Waylon does seem to fit the profile. It's the soft voice and the nervousness and over-arching theme of pathos. The man is starting to become a walking stereotype –the shut-in techie with a penchant for science fiction.

Miles nods. He tries to ignore the fact that the last time he saw 'Back to the future' had been in his last boyfriend's condo in the middle of summer. It had been so hot, even in the dead of the night. It was really only a background to Miles giving him a sloppy blowjob while it was playing. It reminds him of that night, and how happy he'd been –how stupid to believe, for even a second...

Of course, he says none of that. All he can think to say is, "I like westerns."

They fall into silence after that. Part of Miles suspects that Waylon wants to ask about his little suicide bid some more, and is just too polite to get it out. In that way, he'd make a terrible journalist. Being invasive is practically unavoidable.

What is there to say about it? At the time, Miles wanted to die. It had been pretty dumb, even by his standards. Slitting his wrists in a hospital shower was inevitably going to fail. It was the control Miles liked. He wanted to know that living was his own decision.

After a while, Waylon says, "Thankyou."

It makes Miles roll his eyes hard. Everything the man says is a puzzle. The indistinctness isn't cute, either –it's annoying. "Don't be trite."

Waylon seems to get the gist of what he's saying. "It's just –it's nice to know you aren't going to kill me in my sleep, or something." He flashes this real nervous smile, and then nods, thinking of something else. "I ought to-" Rising, he hooks a thumb in the direction of his room. "I ought to be getting ready. Lisa's flight has already left.

Miles just nods –it's none of his concern. In fact, all he's thinking about is how he can get himself another room so that he doesn't have to listen to somebody else having sex. Half of him is twitching to order that blonde again, but his type lacks the capital to sustain such a habit. He shudders to think of engaging in some kind of relationship simply for the necessity of sex.

The loneliness gets to him. He cannot stand to sit and have all the smiling faces in Waylon's photographs scrutinise him any longer. In a hurry, he takes a towel, and slinks out of 103 down to the hotel pool.

He imagines it as going down to a river to pray.

-

The snow doesn't let up.

Waylon misses the radio report telling that all flights outbound or inbound to JFK International have been grounded for the time being. He turns off the television before hearing the headline 'snow has city in standstill'. He doesn't even think to consider the amount of snow still falling, covering the roads and pavements.

Lisa is coming. It's all he can think and feel and care for. And ultimately, that's what will hurt the most.

He gets himself into the shower, and finds himself enjoying the sensation. It makes him think of his mornings at home, and of Lisa. Of course, he misses their domesticity –nights at home together, putting the boys to sleep, having dinner, watching television –but he misses their carnality, too. Being without her isn't just emotionally exhausting.

When he steps out into the cold, he considers leaving something in the still fogged-up bathroom mirror. It's out of habit. At home they always keep a corner of soap in the soapcatch to write messages on the mirror, but here there the room cleaners will probably just wipe it off, or Miles will see it. Waylon decides on leaving the mirror be. Instead, he dresses.

Still thinking of Lisa, he orders something small for lunch, to tide himself over. He doesn't want to be falling asleep on her.

He feels as if in a trance. Already, he thinks about her laugh. The heat of her sleeping next to him. Jesus, it makes him practically giddy –the whole idea of it. Maybe it's the citalopram, or maybe it's just the situation, but he can feel himself smiling, wanting to laugh, feeling his old senses are returning to him. For the first time in a long time, he registers the cold, and his own hunger.

It's so hard to remember his old self, usually, after all of that trauma. Everyday decisions are a balance of what he thinks he would have done –the old Waylon, and what he feels at the moment he's faced with choosing.

Today, it's as if he can remember.

Dressed, he thinks he looks better –there's colour in his face, and his likeness has returned. Maybe just to his own eyes, but that's enough for him. His ankle isn't painful when he limps to the door to collect lunch, managing to finish it all.

If this is the effect his family have on his progress, Waylon sees no need to be nervous or afraid. It will be just like it was before. No –it will be better. They won't have to worry about money or fitting into their tiny apartment in Leadville. They can move, and things will be different his time. He won't be kept away from them because of work, and everything will be better now, he knows it.

He's easily halfway through lunch –and impressed with himself, when his cell phone rings.

Waylon registers the stack of missed calls, belatedly, and answers. "Hey, Leese-"

The serenity of his tone is ignored by an angry exhale. "God, Waylon, I can finally get a hold of you!" Lisa doesn't sound a bit as he imagined. Her voice is tumultuous and angry. "We're grounded at Denver International. I don't –we were supposed to fly to JFK seven hours ago."

Waylon ignores the inevitable. He clings to the optimism he used to have. "How long until you take off?"

"There's not going to be any take off." Lisa sounds more than angry –frustrated, and tired, and Waylon is scared that he is doing nothing to help her. "Nobody's flying out because of the snow. I don't even know if we can get home –the roads are gridlocked."

What can he say? No words come to him.

Even worse is the utter resignation in Lisa's voice when she sighs. "I'm so sorry, baby. There's no way I can get to you. I'm trying –I really am, but there's nothing I can do."

Waylon still can't say anything. His whole body is rigid with tension, and trembling, and when he finally swallows the ash in his mouth, tears are already threatening to ruin him. It can't be true. Already, he can feel Lisa slipping away from him, replaced by all of the apathy he has tried to fight –the depression that destroys his appetite and makes him feel nothing at all, and everything.

His voice is like shattered glass when he tries to speak. "Lisa-...please..."

She exhales, and sounds just as weak. "There's nothing I can do. I –I'm trying. But no flights are departing, and it's really busy and it's making Colin cry...god, what the hell are we doing?"

What are they doing? Honestly, Waylon is surviving. Or, trying to find something to survive for. It's not doing him much good. Lisa is slipping further and further away and it's at times like this that he wonders if he wouldn't be better off drowning in the freakish Atlantic.

"We'll-" Lisa has always been a forward-thinker. She regroups fast. "We'll get a hotel for the night. If the runways are clear tomorrow I'll try to get on the next flight. This whole trip is wearing the boys out. I'll call you back when they're asleep, okay?"

"But-"

"Waylon, I'm doing my best. And I love you, but I need you to bear with me. _Please_." Her tone is hard. It could cut diamonds –but Waylon isn't a diamond. The words have a mean hook and he bruises like a human.

There is not a single bit of voice left in him. His fingers go slack and he feels himself hang up, a mixture of fury and tragedy, both fighting for dominance in staccato bursts. He cuts the line to Lisa's breathing, and her soft, sweet voice.

Waylon doesn't move for a very long time. He's scared that after building up to so much he will never recover from this. So when the first tear starts to fall, it seems to all come at once, and he is powerless to stop the hysteria that comes after.

It feels like hours that he remains there, helpless on the floor. And all the while, the snow continues.

-

It is the wrong night to go for a walk.

Miles only realises this after two hours of avoiding the hotel room in a bar. He is the pleasant sort of numb when he steps out into the night air –the Johnny Walker keeping his stomach warm, and his cheeks flush. The cold only registers with him after a few steps, wetting the hem of his pants and making his nose prickle. His hair is still partially wet from the pool water, and the back of his neck stings the worst.

Visibility is poor. Miles has to blink the pale flakes out of his face, trudging forward down the empty street. He's not far from the hotel, but that doesn't make it any less cold. Twenty steps out of the door and he's shivering already.

The most painful by far is the tips of his fingers. He goes to rub his hands together, as if to make sparks, and then looks down in real surprise

He knows the fingers that are missing. He can even see them. But the cold makes them hurt where there is nothing.

What's happening to him? Is he going mad? Is he drunk to the point of delusion on so little? Miles doesn't want to go mad. He doesn't want to them to put him back from where he escaped. He doesn't want to be drunk, either, but it makes living easier when he isn't sober.

Miles ignores the tremble in his hands. Stuffing them both into his pockets, he trudges deeper into the snow, trying to think of anything else at all. But, Christ, it's so cold and he's all alone. If he were to pass out in the snow he'd probably just be left there to die of pneumonia, and Miles is terrified to die, so he walks as past as he can, barely able to see, trembling, lightheaded.

Chunks of ice are starting to form in the wet parts of his hair. That's the most alarming part.

In a way, it is a revelation. Miles keeps pushing forward, towards the hotel, because he doesn't want to die anymore. He's not sure what he's living for, exactly –most likely to spite everyone who wanted him dead in the first place, but a reason is a reason.

It keeps him going until he sees the splendour and lights of the hotel from down the avenue. A doorman is still standing outside when Miles shuffles up, barely conscious, unable to feel the change in temperature when he steps inside the hotel.

He tracks snow into the lush carpet all the way up the stairs –he never uses the elevator, cautious about any space where an exit isn't always open.

It takes him a good few minutes to unlock the door. His hands are still trembling and he's still getting used to using his non-dominant fingers. Once inside, he staggers to his room and pulls the sheet off of the bed. He replaces his jacket with it, curling the blanket like a toga to return the feeling to his extremities.

The place is practically silent. Waylon said something about his wife coming over –but there isn't a sign of life in the place. Miles wonders briefly if they're sleeping –but after weeks apart, he seriously doubts that a married couple would be content to 'sleep'. God willing, Miles gets so lonesome that he pays for it. With money.

His head is foggy, and he sits at the table for some time, staring at web pages but absorbing nothing. After a while, looking the worst Miles has ever seen him –worse than when he had his fit—Waylon emerges from his room.

Miles has never seen another human being look so absolutely desperate with misery.

"Where's the wife?" Is his opening sentence –and he doesn't realise it's the wrong thing to say until he's said it because he's had a little too much to keep his thoughts steady.

"Grounded at Denver." He sniffs. As if with no other course of action he coughs angrily and turns on Miles. "How'd you do it? How'd you have it in you?"

Miles isn't too far gone in to understand the insinuation. But he doesn't want to believe even for a second that Waylon thinks his little suicide bid was fun or brave or courageous. Because if he does, then he's truly insane, and he needs help that pills won't be able to provide and therapy won't do fast enough.

"I must have sat with that knife for an hour, maybe _more_, and I-...I couldn't do it. I was too _scared_. I couldn't..."

Every instinct in Miles' body thrills and he desperately wants to choke the life out of Waylon for trivialising suicide. For putting his actions, and all of his blood on Miles' hands, just because he didn't wear sleeves. He is trying to stay calm, desperately, because he saw Walker, and he knows what anger does to people: he knows what he wants to avoid becoming, but Waylon makes it so much harder.

In a steady voice, he grinds out, "You want to die, Park?"

The man makes a noise of utter desperation. "I want-" He blubbers, "I want my life back. I just thought it would-"

"Well, it doesn't!" Miles snarls, raising himself to full height, feeling his chest heave. "Is that what you were going to tell your wife in your fucking suicide note? _Jesus Christ_, you aren't the only one who wants their goddamn life back!"

He doesn't expect Waylon to have the gall to speak –least of all shout back. "Then what do I _do_?!"

It takes the wind out of Miles' sails. He's being asked for help by someone who clearly needs it, and it would do no good to alienate him further. In a voice that is more quiet, and grounded, he says, "You survive. You take your pills and you see your therapist and then you get to see your wife. Y'don't –you don't kill yourself. You don't let them win."

It isn't a game, he knows. But it's easier to play at responsibility than have it.

Waylon is still ruined with tears. Stuttering, only just getting down air, he sobs, "I can't do this without her."

This isn't Miles' area of expertise. He's never been married –and he's not a romantic, truth be told. But he strives, anyway, because he is scared of having Waylon's suicide around his neck, and scared that this is what he is destined to become.

He puts a tentative hand on Waylon's shoulder, and says, "They'll have JFK clear by morning. You can hold on 'til then, right?" The other man's head is still bowed, and it makes Miles even more cautious: he wants to believe. "Right, Park?"

"Okay." He breathes, in a weak little voice. "Alright."

Shaky, like an old man, Waylon rises, and Miles helps him up. He deposits Waylon in his room, and returns to the kitchen, sitting in the low light and examining the marks his own cuts left.

Is all of this –the therapy, the confessions, the pills –just staving off the inevitable? Miles is starting to think that mere exposure to that place has left them both marked, somehow, and that madness of death is inevitable. And his only point of reference –his silver mirror is Waylon.

He fears falling asleep and leaving Waylon to his own devices, so he remains at the kitchen table for as long as possible.

Miles falls asleep three times, and every time, he wakes with a start, wandering down the hall to check for breathing, before coming back up.


	7. Chapter 7

The hotel room has better central heating than the apartment they live in.

The walls are good at keeping the sound in and the cold out, and the furnishings are simple and nice. Lisa thinks that if she could, she'd move the boys somewhere like this in a heartbeat.

Given the suddenness of their booking, the only room Lisa had been able to obtain was a single. The boys are so exhausted from being dragged from terminal to terminal, they don't have the energy to complain. At the head of the bed, James is curled up tight, with his brother clinging onto him.

After the longest day of her life, Lisa finally has silence. And she hasn't a clue what to do with it.

In Boulder, the walls had been thin. There wasn't a quiet night's sleep to be had for the three years they lived there. But at least then, when the day was over, she had somebody to talk to. Half of the time, if not most, Lisa didn't know what Waylon was talking about –he always got so _specific_ and technical when he was excited, but it was his overwhelming enthusiasm that kept her listening.

She turns onto her side and finds her cell phone charging on the night stand.

In any case, he is always there. The tremulous breath at the end of her line, overexposed, like an x-ray. Lisa wants to call him. And even if she doesn't –she will. It is inevitable, like the rise of a wave, squeezing breath from blood cells.

Waylon doesn't get specific anymore. Even in the happiest moments of their communication, he always sounds as if his voice is new, and being tested, stock phrases and words repeated over a tanoy. Rehearsal, not rapport. Lisa recognises it because that's how Colin sounds, only just starting to form sentences –getting the syllables out first of all.

Sometimes she doesn't recognise the voice, or even the mouth it comes from, and it scares her.

Of everything she saw –all the footage of anything salvageable, Waylon's silver mirror, he lost a few fingers. But his reflection, _her _man –how much did he lose?

_What_ did he lose?

Eventually, as would always have been the case, she plies the phone from the nightstand and calls for New York, prepared to hear the stranger she loves still, and is tied to. The dialtone rings out softly, and the line breathes, it's breath hitching for a second, and that's all it takes for Lisa to get through.

Her voice trembles in the open silence. "Waylon?" She can hear him swallowing. It's enough to know he's there. She hears herself talk to him as if to one of the boys, slowly, simplistically. "It's alright. I got us a hotel. I'm not-...I'm not giving up that easy."

His voice is so strange when he does finally talk. "Are you s-" Waylon sounds as if he's struggling desperately for the right words. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

Lisa doesn't understand him. It's everything she wants –they_ both_ want. It's all they have talked about for weeks.

"Of course it's what I want. Waylon, this was –don't you want us to come up?"

He makes a noise that is inaudible, and Lisa wonders for a second if he's tired, or disinterested or somebody else entirely until this very small whimper breaks through his invincible winter. "I-I'm _scared_, Leese."

Of all the things Lisa saw in his footage –the cannibal, the necrophilia, the threat of death or mutilation or worse, and Waylon kept it together through all of that. To hear him say that the prospect of his family scares him makes Lisa feel cold.

"I'm not –I'm not _better_ -I thought I would be by now, but I'm still..._s-still_..." By then, he's practically in tears, and Lisa has never heard Waylon cry before. Not at any film they watched together –not when they were married, or when the boys were born. She knows how truly terrified he must be –how irrefutably broken he is if he's crying.

Lisa can't think of what to say right away. But it comes to her, eventually.

"You're not sick." She says, softly. "You just need time to –to forget. It'll be easier, when you're back home." Lisa desperately hopes that it will somehow soothe Waylon, because the thought of him unhappy, and lone, all that way away makes her feel so awful.

She waits in agony for his response. For any confirmation that he's alright.

After an eternity, Lisa hears him say, "What if I hurt you –you, or the boys...I don't know what I'd _do_ if..."

The words are unbearable to hear. "Everything will be okay." Lisa says, as sincerely as she can muster. "We have time, and you don't have to come home if you're not ready. I'll..." She swallows. "I'll wait for you, Waylon. You know I will."

"You shouldn't have to."

Lisa turns onto her side and searches for some answer. They both know that there is none –at least none easily available, but it's all she can do to feel useful. She wishes more than anything that she could do something, but she feels universes apart from Waylon, and utterly useless.

She settles on the best words she knows. "I love you. That's all that matters to me."

That's all Waylon would ever have needed to hear before. If he got down about the debts, or working overtime and never seeing the boys, she could tell him they loved him, that _she _loved him, and the sadness would dissolve from him steadily. Now, the end of the line is a breathy silence. From the wreckage, Waylon Park is unsalvageable.

After too long a time, Waylon manages a reply. "I love you too, Leese." His voice is steadier now, but only by a little. "Goodnight." He breathes.

Lisa doesn't want to say goodnight. She doesn't want to sleep knowing that he is alone in a city where she isn't, having seen all of those things, having no guarantee he will be alright.

But when she speaks, all she can manage is, "Goodnight, Waylon."

The call ends then, the line going dead as if off at the root. Lisa watches her boys, clinging to one another in their sleep. If something terrible were to befall them, either of them, Lisa knows they would recover because they have eachother.

It is a worse punishment to be alone than any suffering, she thinks.

Save for suffering alone.

-

When Waylon wakes, shivering, he is reminded of his childhood.

Not in a vague way, but a strong, direct memory triggered by the tune steaming down the hall under the roar of the shower water. Not just a tune –a hymn, that his mother used to sing around the house that made Waylon feel steady as a child.

The memories of yesterday make him feel stiff and nauseous, but the calm of the tune overcomes it. It's always sunny in his memories of his mother, and despite the cold of the room he feels warmer for the hearing.

Miles is, by no stretch of the imagination, a singer in any right, but it is enough.

Waylon dresses listening to it, taking care with his uncast leg, having to guide his ankle down and out. His movement hasn't really returned to it, and now and then it aches. The limp makes him think more and more about getting his crutch back or something to make standing less awkward. Not a cane. He's not even thirty, and God's bread, Lisa would _laugh_-...

Lately, Waylon tries not to think of Lisa. Yet, it's _all_ he _can_ think about.

He fears he was cocky when he didn't listen to his therapist, and that the man is right. What if Waylon has changed beyond recognition, and she no longer loves him, or knows him? What if it all falls apart?

Lisa is the only one left with her finger in the dam. If she leaves him, flooding is inevitable.

His wedding ring doesn't even fit him anymore. It used to, and he'd glance down at it every so often when he was typing away at work. It helped to remind him what he was working for. Now, it's too big. His fingers are thinner and there is less of him in the world. What is he working towards now? Is it Lisa: for a chance to play at normalcy? To pretend he is the man in the family photographs?

Lately, he finds it hard to believe they are him, and not some dull rumour of another man, with softer features, and a gentler look at the world.

The worst part is that he loves her. Still.

The song continues, getting louder as Waylon limps out into the hall and down towards the kitchen. His pills are by the fridge, and he takes them dry, one after the other as if desperately seeking salvation.

And then, in a moment of genuine interest, he picks up a bottle of pills that belongs to Miles' and reads over the label. Waylon has to wonder if he's being given placebos, or sugar, because they both survived the hell of that place, and Miles seems to be the only one making a recovery. The drug –Zoloft, seems no different than the ones he takes, but Waylon gives serious thought as to why they are being treated differently for what are essentially the same symptoms.

In the midst of his pondering, Miles wanders out of the shower, a monogrammed towel slung low around his waist. The moment he realises that Waylon is awake, and standing in the kitchen, his humming trails off, and he nods to the pills Waylon is still holding.

"They work for me." Is what he opens with. "If you're still feeling –I don't know: take them if you need to."

Miles doesn't stand his ground like he used to. At the very sight of Waylon, he seems saddened, and withdraws. As tempting as it would be to take Miles' pills, as well as the contents of the fridge and whatever he can find going for under thirty dollars on the streets of New York, Waylon has never had to take antidepressants or behavioural medications before, and he doesn't know the rules.

It's like being a child again, he thinks, in that he doesn't hold the reins on this one at all.

He has never been very good at putting his trust into other people. It was enough to trust Murkoff to pay him –only to condemn him to their experiments and keep him away from his family. It is enough to trust the therapist who says the drugs are a 'long-term' solution while not saying a word on Waylon's suicidal thoughts. Why should he trust any of these people?

Too tired to be angry, he tries to put himself through the ordeal of breakfast, getting less than a third of the way in before deciding against the whole thing. He leaves the plate out while he goes for a shower, the bathroom still warm in the wake of Miles' voice.

As the water begins to build in pressure, he hears himself humming the same tune from earlier, catching only the last few words on the line _"...down to the river to pray_."

All of the family on the side of his mother comes from Kentucky, or thereabouts, and Waylon remembers them being churchgoers. He remembers one of his cousins being baptised in a river, and when he asked, his mother explain that 'the water washes away everything, if you let it'

Waylon has always liked that idea. He wants to believe that there is some kind of redemption for the things he has seen and done, but he never went to church, and he knows that a little splash of warm water isn't going to change anything.

He towels off and tries to keep himself busy until his therapist arrives, having mixed feelings about the entire thing. It's not fair to expect instantaneous results, especially given the severity of Waylon's pathologies, but he also holds onto the belief of his father. That therapy is for rich people _–'poor people have things to be getting on with'_.

The therapist is early when he arrives, and comes in with that tight smile and short, sharp phrases. Waylon still isn't sure what to make of him. But he follows the paradigm of their sessions regardless, determined to get something out of his time.

"How're you feeling today, Waylon?" The therapist sets up as he usually does, and opens with a nice vague question. "It must feel good to have the cast off."

What can he say? There is one single thing on his mind, heavy enough to choke him, as if being pulled under an entire ocean. Waylon can no longer go on pretending to this man, or tell he what he wants to hear. Like a parasite tearing through his skin, the truth worms it;'s way out of him, and in a hideously calm voice, he hears himself say,

"I thought about killing myself, yesterday. I couldn't think of a reason to live."

The therapist goes slack.

Right away, too. It's as if he can't really believe that Waylon, with all of is pills and his progress and compliance and smiling would have the _nerve_ to regress.

But that's not what the man expresses when he says, "Is this the first time you've had suicidal thoughts?"

One shoulder shrugs. It's something Waylon can stay calm about. "I think so."

"And are you still experiencing these thoughts?"

He pauses. "I don't make plans about it. But –sometimes I'll think of ways to do it, and they don't seem like such bad ideas."

It sounds so preventable and juvenile to say it aloud. Waylon thinks they ought to give him a lobotomy or something –anything to stop him from thinking all the time, and inventing new scenarios in his head where he gets to die. In reality, Waylon doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to do that to Lisa and the boys.

Then why does it plague his thoughts?

The therapist looks equally at odds with the situation. "Are you feeling worthless or destructive?"

Waylon shakes his head.

"Can you think of a reason to stay alive now, Waylon? Perhaps you could tell me a few." It's a stupid exercise, Waylon thinks. If he never thought of a reason to be alive, he wouldn't be alive, much less sitting in the session. But he plays along anyway.

"I don't want-...I don't want to make my wife a widow. I don't want to miss my kids growing up." Then, he thinks of Miles' words, and the man's whole foolish attitude towards it. "I don't want to let them win." He says.

The therapist pauses at that answer, as if it is unsatisfactory, and writes something else. "All of your reasons concern pleasing or spiting other people. Unless you focus on yourself, any progress we make in these sessions will not benefit you."

Waylon doesn't know what to say. If he were alone in this world, like Miles, he would have died in there. The memory of Lisa kept him going forward. Alone, he would have sunk, like a gutterball.

"It isn't uncommon for people who are new to antidepressants to feel worthless or suicidal. And citalopram has been linked to suicidal thoughts in the first few weeks of taking it."

Waylon doesn't understand. "So why are you still prescribing it to me? Why not something else?"

That doesn't please the therapist. The man bites his lip, before saying, very calmly, "Suicidal thoughts are a symptom of PTSD and depression –not the antidepressant itself. It would be impossible to establish causality without putting you at risk."

He continues. "I don't hesitate to remind you that you were assigned zyprexa and citalopram by the psychiatrist who carried out your initial evaluation, and not me personally, Waylon. If you really feel they are not benefitting you, I can prescribe you something else for your treatment."

"Just tell me how to make it stop. If you can."

The therapist makes a face of bemusement. "Waylon, I'm afraid it isn't as simple as-"

"It was for Miles!" He isn't even aware of how angry he is until he's shouting. Waylon is a very quiet person, he always has been, and it has been a long time since he has shouted like this. It's jealousy, he thinks. That everybody else gets to enjoy normalcy. That it had to happen to him, and not someone more deserving.

"There has to be-" Halfway into shouting, he comes to his senses, knowing that his fury will solve nothing. Suddenly, his throat dries up, and his voice is a spooky whisper when he despairs. "There has to be _something_ you can do."

It doesn't seem it -but Waylon is desperate. He can already feel that before anything gets any better, things are going to get worse. The free-falling has started, and he has reached terminal velocity, no wings, no parachute.

Maybe he is better off reaching the bottom.

-  
At the bottom of the swimming pool, Miles has something of a revelation.

He has been thinking –for days and weeks and months, ever since leaving that place, of how to describe things now. It's a habit for him. Even in the midst of the atrocities, he kept writing, convincing himself that he needed something to publish, because telling himself he wasn't going to get out meant he never would.

Every cliché and truism falls short of his life now –it is practically indescribable. That is, until he opens his eyes at the bottom of the pool, and sees before him some kind of great, terrible flood.

It is as if the water has wiped out all of the life before his eyes, familiar landmarks and crests of home disappearing as the dark wave swells, leaving nothing but bones in it's wake. And Miles is the only one left alive, to witness these things.

It is as if he is all alone, aboard the ark.

When the burn in his lungs gives, he propels himself to the surface, taking in a great mouthful of air. _Yes_, he thinks._ That'_s what he is. Him and Waylon both: _alone aboard the ark_.

The water has always helped to clear his head. Today is no different. It makes him feel light and clean and peaceful, a continuous baptism. It washes all of the blood and dirt and sin from him, and Miles likes the feel of the water sustaining him. When this trial is over, he wonders if he'll get enough compensation from Murkoff's dismantlement to buy a house with a swimming pool.

It seems childish enough, but he'd like that.

It plays on his mind when he changes into some dry, loose clothes and enters the foyer. The hotel is a mix of the upper-class and hotel staff, all of whom are constantly well-groomed and immaculate. Miles does not belong among their number, and finds the pretence irritating. Though, he can feel something of a cold starting in the back if his throat. If his mood goes further south, it may just be that.

Sniffing, he avoids the elevator, as always, and climbs the six flights of stairs to 103, heaving a small sigh as he unlocks the door, and lets himself inside.

He is startled by Waylon.

The man is sitting at the kitchen table, facing the door, and the moment Miles comes in the other man's eyes fix on him. He feels like a criminal under that gaze. One day he will be away from Waylon's sad eyes and slumped posture and misery, coming together like a whirlpool that Miles doesn't want to get sucked in to. The sooner he leaves, the better.

Unable to be scrutinised, he heads towards the television and sits down, searching for the remote. It feels so horribly cold that he even abandons the search after a while and brings the sheets from his bed. The chill is horrifying—even the sheets hardly defend against it. He has to wonder how Waylon can sit in a cotton shirt without so much as shivering.

Miles wants to complain at him to adjust the thermostat, but feels he at least owes the other man his concern.

"You alright?" He gets out, quietly. Waylon's gaze shifts from the laptop in front of him over to Miles, under the myriad of sheets. An almost unperceivable nod is followed by Waylon's gentle voice. He's always so at peace with the worst of things.

"I think so." He says, quietly. "I won't-..."

"That's good." It is unspeakably easy for Miles to be supportive about it. They have been exposed to the same nightmares, thereabouts, and if Waylon can't think to live through it, what hope is there for Miles? It is selfish for him to think that way, but it is adaptive. He is built to survive.

Waylon keeps his eyes heavy on the other man, and for a very long time says nothing, until the words escape out of him as if on their own volition. "How do you –how do you forget about it?" The man gives a desperate little laugh. "It never goes away, for me. I never-" A sigh. "I never stop."

There is no shut-off switch. There is no easy road to catharsis. But Miles must have some kind of answer.

"I haven't forgotten." Miles says. "Jesus, I wish I could, but it's not –it doesn't work like that. I mean, I don't know. I just try to keep myself busy." He sits up, and extends his arm so Waylon can get a good look at the marks he left for himself. "It's not like I don't still think about it."

That gets Waylon's real attention. Like some great myth disproved, Waylon stares at him, looking a mix of confused and angry. Is Miles a hypocrite for this? Does that matter?

"At least if I'm busy, I don't think about it, because there's so much left to do, y'know? But –but when I'm not, it gets..._harder_. It's not something you ever turn off."

Waylon isn't sure he likes the sounds of it. His medications make him too apathetic to be busy, and he tires so easily. And when his timetable clears, it will all be for nothing.

"What do you do when you're not busy?"

Miles frowns. "Lots of things. I don't know. If I'm thinking about –that place, I try to imagine how it would've gone if I had a gun." His laughs, then, but it is filled with something besides mirth or actual amusement. "I like the idea that if something like that ever happened again, I'd be fucking ready."

He sighs again. "I go to confession. Like, I don't even _believe_ in God. It's kind of fucked up, but it makes me feel better."

"Is that where you heard that song?"

Miles frowns. "What song?"

Waylon shrugs one arm. "The one you were singing earlier. That one about the river."

Miles smiles at that. He nods, enthusiastically. "Yeah." And then, softer. "What do you want to die for, anyway?" Of course, Waylon has no answer prepared, and he prefers to listen, rather than talk. "You got a nice life, y'know? A wife, and kids, and all that."

That's the only thing that makes Waylon smile –and it's a nice smile, too, serene and gentle. "I know." He says, quietly. "I'm lucky." 

They fall into silence after that. Miles lays down, ignoring the way his head spins, either from the chlorine of the pool water or the cold creeping up out of his throat. He is practically drowsing, listening to the soft noises that Waylon's keyboard makes. It reminds him of late nights that turned into early mornings, finishing articles for deadlines. It hadn't been much, but he had been happy.

The situation has Miles at odds with himself. Waylon is still the _whistleblower_ –he is still the reason that Miles has seen all of the things he has. Waylon is still the reason Miles doesn't sleep –or has fits in the street, and scares children with his eight fingers. But he's also the reason Murkoff is in the ground now.

It's strange to say, even for Miles, but he's sort of comforting. Like a friendly apparition, kind enough to remind Miles that he isn't alone in the world.

Effectually, the noise keeps him drowsy, but it's loud enough to distract him from actual sleep. He becomes conscious and lucid again, after an hour, if not more, of laying there, half-aware of his surroundings. The room has gotten discernibly colder, and the first thing he can think to do is to noisily clear his throat. It hurts.

The tapping at the keyboard has become more incessant. Miles can't ignore it.

"What're you doing?" he says, his voice croaky enough to surprise even him. As if his larynx has rusted over in the matter of time it hasn't been used.

Waylon only pauses to give an answer. "My therapist thought it might be a good idea if I wrote down what I was thinking about. It's not so bad." He pauses, and then heaves a little sigh. "Do you still write?"

Miles rolls onto his back and sniffs. The ache in his head is now fully present, but he presses. "Not really."

That seems to disappoint Waylon, who withdraws a little, nodding, resuming the hammering of his fingers on the keyboard. But the strokes aren't as confident as they were before, and sometimes he outright pauses, as if searching for the right word, but being continually eluded. He casts glances at Miles once or twice, debating whether or not to speak again.

It makes no difference to Miles. He is distracted by a new pain –a sharp, convulsive twist in his gust that threatens to flare. How can Waylon sit there without a jacket on? It's freezing in the apartment, cold enough to make him physically shiver. He shouldn't have swallowed so much damn pool water –or had any of the mixed nuts from that damn bar.

Turning onto his side, Miles murmurs in pain and shuts his eyes, attempting to will away the distraction for an hour or so of sleep. It's practically impossible.

"Miles?" Waylon's whisper is surprisingly direct, and it has Miles' attention. Miles isn't great with pain –and he doesn't have the adrenaline that the asylum had in constant supply to keep him oblivious. "Do you know what happened to that walrider project?"

Despite the intensity of the pain, Miles sits right up.

He tastes the name in his mouth. "Walrider? There was no-..." But he cannot deny the familiarity of the name. He can see it, behind his eyes, written a million times over in blood, and then darkness –nightvision, a smoothie of innards all over him from whatever solid remained of Walker.

Miles feels as if he is going to have an aneurism. He remembers –he remembers something. Hazy details, but visceral in their contents. He remembers the worst pain of all –hot, searing pain hitting his body all over in sharp pinpoints, and then consuming darkness before some great rise into madness.

He remembers some fall. Some magnificent fall where consciousness tore itself from him, wrending every fibre of his being in half.

He is so consumed by the headache of memories violently bringing themselves to light that he only just hears Waylon's terrified voice, elevated from a whisper. 

"Miles—your nose!"

He doesn't really hear the words until he tastes blood, and his eyes close of his own accord. He tries to grasp every abstract memory that flashes before him, uselessly."I remember..." He says, helplessly. "I don't –I don't _understand_ what I remember..."

He hears the hard grate of a chair on floor and some more squawking from Waylon, but it is a million miles away, and it fades into darkness long before Miles can get a hand to stop himself.

Another hard, long fall.

-

When he comes to, feeling even more worse for wear, he's sweating grotesquely.

He blinks into consciousness as if surfacing from water, the world fuzzy at first, and he can't bring things into focus right away. The sharp pain in his stomach hasn't ceased, and the headache is only worse. Miles still feels terribly cold.

The shapes come into further detail, and he realises that there are a pair of hands lifting his head, and then he feels a pillow underneath him.

Miles groans. "It's fucking cold."

There is some more shifting and Waylon's face comes into view. He lays a hand on Miles' brow despite the other man trying to shake it off. "It's not cold, you're just feverish." There's a hollow sound and he can see the rim of some kind of bucker being pulled into view. "If you feel like you're going to be sick, do it in here."

Miles doesn't like the feel of being babied –he isn't used to it, and fights against the gaze. "You don't need to look after me." He grumbles.

Waylon, still cautious to the other man, rises gradually and turns to leave, with a gentle sigh. But the moment he has turned around, a hand fixed on the leg of his pants, and Miles mumbles into the pillow. "Thank-you."

It gives Waylon pause. He turns, half-alarmed, and says, "You're welcome." In his characteristic whisper.

By then, Miles is already asleep. But he's welcome nonetheless.


	8. Chapter 8

Miles comes to in darkness.

He's alone now, and sweating horribly, but the cold is gone. Instead, it is replaced by the feel of heatstroke. The sheets he has wrapped himself in are difficult to untangle from, and it takes effort to kick them away –followed by his shirt, and pants, until he's face-down in his underwear.

The movement fatigues him. He feels as if he's sweating out pure glucose.

It has been a very long time since the last time Miles was ill –alone, it had been nearly three days of being barely conscious, unable to keep down food or water or painkillers, and he had wanted no part in it ever again. Yet, here he is.

The pain in his gut keeps him from moving around too much. Where is there to go? Miles seriously doubts he could make it all the way down the hall, to his bed –and a shower is out of the question anyway. Part of him wants to be outside, in the freezing night air, and the snow, just to settle the fever, but he has the good sense to stay put, for now.

His headache hasn't gone yet. He wonders –is it from the sickness, or from earlier? All of those memories he had half-grasped, from darkness, and god-like ascension have fallen into ambiguity.

Miles is scared to remember. Just the name of it had been enough to put him out –what if trying to remember kills him?

Or even worse: what if there's something he has forgotten on purpose? What if he did something awful –or saw something that he has buried deep down? Something so awful that Miles should never ever try to remember it.

It isn't making him feel any better, and he'd rather not mark up the couch with another nosebleed. Carefully, he turns himself onto his side in increments, wary of his aching stomach, before easing himself into a position he thinks he'll fall asleep in.

The pillows make things much easier –he ought to thank Waylon, he thinks.

But for now, he sleeps.

-

The next time Miles comes to, it's just breaking light outside.

Not that he has much time at all to take it in –he leans hard over the sofa and heaves, vomiting what is easily his last three meals into the bucket.

It doesn't ease his stomachache any –if anything, it makes it worse. And Miles doesn't get to lie back down for a minute before he feels the nausea come again and has to vomit some more. It's mostly bile the second and third times, but that doesn't make it any easier.

The bitter, acidic taste burns his mouth and leaves his tongue fuzzy. Winded, Miles remains leaning for a few more minutes, sniffing, trying to catch his breath. When he is absolutely certain he isn't going to wretch again, he rests himself onto his back carefully and pulls the sheets up around him again, feeling the chill set in, just as he did when he left the pool.

Dubiously, he wraps the sheets around him, tight as he likes, and manages to stand. He staggers to the cupboards and roots around for something –anything that takes the form of an aspirin or painkiller. His headache is awful and he doesn't know how easy sleep is going to come.

The only pills in the entire place are for mood regulation. They're no good to Miles, so he abandons the search altogether.

As he goes to lie back down on the cough, he picks up his pants and rifles through the back pocket for his wallet, finding a ten dollar note. He finds some stationery, and in the darkness, manages to scrawl out the word '_aspirin_' before he falls back onto the couch, shivering his easy into a dreamless sleep.

-

It's only just past sunrise when Waylon wakes.

He is fraught with fear.

He sits up in a great panic, searching desperately in the darkness to find some kind of memento of his family –and his past, convinced that he has forgotten his children's names, and his wife's face. The sheets wind around his legs and pull him down like some great chain anchoring him to the sea floor, and he's frenzied –kicking, drowning in the sheets, feeling over his nightstand for anything.

He only feels the photograph when he swats it off of the nightstand with a sudden jerk. He is helpless for a second, unable to do anything but hear the frame hit the floor, and the glass shatter.

Terrified, he dips down, cutting his palm on the shard, trying to retrieve the frame. He does, despite the cuts, and is relieved to see the picture, even in moderate darkness.

His bloody fingers skirt the photograph, circling Lisa's face, feeling the stillness rush through him. It's not the first time he's been afraid of forgetting them –being kept away at Murkoff didn't do his paranoia any good, and the moment Jeremy condemned him to the '_morphogenic engine program'_ he feared not losing his mind, but his memories.

It's alright, Waylon knows. He still has Lisa. And besides her, his boys. For a second, he is confused about the man besides her, until he realises with a start –that's _him_.

Dwelling on it never does him any good, he knows, so he gets to his feet, leaning hard on his left, and treads quietly down the hall.

Light is making itself more apparent through the wide windows overlooking the snowy streets. The weather has eased up a little, and the sun is actually visible today through patches of sky. Waylon notices this, first, and then the smell. As he limps quietly around the sofa, he can see that Miles has been sick.

It doesn't bother Waylon. He got used to tending to and cleaning up after Lisa when she had morning sickness, and then when Colin was a newborn. If anything, it's an almost pleasant respite from the awkwardness between them.

Miles looks like a warzone as it is –white as Stalingrad, his cheeks flush as Flander's fields. For once, Waylon doesn't envy him a bit.

If anything, he pities Miles. The man doesn't remember things –important things, and can't make sense of his own memories. Those are Waylon's worst fears: losing parts of his life, having them seem strange or alien to him. Something as monolithic as PROJECT WALRIDER shouldn't be something so easily forgotten.

Waylon is still tired –but once he's awake, he always finds it difficult to resume sleeping, and so settles himself on the other couch, perpendicular to Miles, turning the television onto a low volume and watching some breakfast news show.

At home, he never had time to catch any television in the morning. It was always some great hurry –out of bed, wake the boys up, shower with Lisa (the only time they would have any privacy until late into the night), get dressed, hurry to work. Most days, breakfast was out of the question anyway. Especially when he had to commute.

The headlines are local, and of no interest to Waylon. After a while, he gets up and goes to take his pills. The zyprexa goes down with ease but he hesitates to open the citalopram. He resents the notion that the very drugs assigned to help him make him want to die, but his therapist said all he'd need to do was give it time. There's no use in taking chances –Waylon swallows it down with some water.

Still tired, he uses the hotel phone to order a continental and a coffee, before setting to work emptying the bucket by Miles. He draws the curtains over the wide window to leave the place in darkness and leaves a glass of water on the table. That's when he sees the money, and the note besides it.

At least he has a reason to get dressed now.

When breakfast arrives, he drinks the coffee fast and leaves the toast and croissants on the side, taking his wallet and room key down out with him. He even shuts the door quietly, so as not disturb Miles, before heading down the long, carpeted hallway and into the elevator.

It's far too cold for his solitary jacket, and it spurs him to find the nearest convenience store, limping as best he can to come in from the cold. His ankle isn't getting any better –not that it hurts, as such, but it's much harder to walk without some kind of crutch. Still, he manages, finding himself practically alone in the store, trying to locate something like Tylenol.

He's got cash on one of his cards, and doesn't mind paying. It's nice to feel useful once in a while –of course, he knows he is not of the least convenience to Miles, but in this moment he is important and helpful.

He rounds up a number of things, namely ibuprofen, Tylenol, some more orange juice, a thermometer. Waylon reasons that with all the snow still around, there isn't much point in buying ice. As he pays, out of habit, he totals everything up and works out how much it will come to before it does. Even if money is no longer an issue, it's a very old habit.

He heads back out into the snow, feeling better for the very brief outing. Not once does he think about walking in front of a fast car, or swallowing all of the pills he has brought.

There's too much to get done today.

-

Footsteps creak down the hall. Miles is awash with darkness.

It isn't clear if he is dreaming or not. Not that he can see at all –feeling around clumsily in the darkness until he feels the soft grain of wood. A door. The wood is cold and damp, and it's only then that Miles registers the chill. Wherever he is, it's cold as hell. Blindly, he feels for a doorhandle –it's like ice, but he operates it in a smooth movement, and it opens.

Water. A great wave that rushes over him –soaking him all over, and settling at waist height. It laps at him, cold and steady, and when he looks up, he can see light, just about.

In front of him, Father Martin holds out a hand to him, standing in the water, too. Miles reasons that they're in a river. Around him, in some kind of circle, variants are praying, their heads bowed in solemn reverence. None of them even look at Miles, and continue to pray when Father Martin extends his hand further, offering something –some kind of emancipation.

Miles backs away. He turns –looking for a way out, but there is no door back, and nowhere to go. The only way to go is forward, and when he tries out his voice, all he can do is breathe, or whisper, no words forming on his lips.

It takes him a moment to realise that the extended hand is offering a baptism.

Swallowing, he keeps his hands by his side, unwilling to test the dark, murky waters. "I just want-..." His voice is barely a pinprick. "I just want to forget."

Father Martin's mad eyes roll around in their dark sockets and fix on him. "This is the only way, my son."

It's madness to take the man's hand, let alone accept the baptism, knowing he will be subject to the madness of is gospel. But how is it any different from any other church? Tentatively, fearing for the fingers he has left, Miles reaches out, and takes the man's hand, being brought in.

He doesn't get a moment to breathe before the large hands fix around him and force him under the water.

Miles goes blind –bubbles forcing themselves to the surface, his legs battering wildly as he throws himself madly to be free. He wants to live –isn't that his reward? Freedom from death? Emancipation from –his screams are muffled by the dirty water, filling his lungs and ears and drowning him until there is nothing left. His fingers get no purchase –his lungs alight with desperation.

Hands lift him from the water. Miles sputters desperately. The water is turning rosy with blood, and the hands holding him are clawlike and nearly skinless. There's no a trace of Martin left in the man –instead, half-mad he hears Trager's voice, soft and calm as the ocean floor.

"We're not finished, buddy."

Miles screams. He is forced down deeper into the bloody briney –swallowing the acidic water as he fights to get purchase and be free. The surface must only be inches from him but he feels as if he is at the bottom of the ocean, buried, forgotten. The figures above the water tremble in his gaze, and the colour in his vision begins to fade to grey.

Miles is dying. He's drowning, and he will forget everything, just as he asked. As his legs go still beneath him and his body goes slack, he is torn from the water one last time, gasping out, barely able to see.

The man holding him this time heads a crowd of variants, all of them looking to him as if his wisdom will save them all. Not a priest or a doctor.

Waylon Park has his hands around Miles' neck this time.

"I'm sorry." Is all he says, in barely a whisper.

And then he forces Miles under.

-

Miles wakes, barely breathing.

Waylon's eyes are level with his.

"It's alright." He says, in his whisper. "I'm just trying to take your temperature."

Miles is too stunned to speak. His heart is racing hard, and the hard, knife-like breaths he's taking in make him feel as if he's going to vomit again. Every nervous instinct in him trembles –he must have been dreaming, he knows, but that does nothing to ease the adrenaline that keeps his joints rigid, locked with fear.

It is his own response that keeps him blessedly still when one of Waylon's cold hands presses a thin, film-like strip to his brow. It remains there for a few minutes, and there is nowhere to look but at Waylon.

Desperate, Miles searches it as if assessing some kind of threat. There isn't an inch of contention or malice to be seen, but Miles can still see him, impossibly strong, holding him under.

Trying to mask his fear as pride, Miles swats the hand away and smoothes out the shake of his voice. "You don't need to do that."

Cautiously, Waylon peels himself away, examining the filmy strip before he looks up again and says, "You have a fever. I need to-"

"I already told you to leave me alone."

"I'm only trying to-"

Miles want to howl. "Damn it, Park!"

Waylon doesn't listen. He never, _ever_ listens and it makes Miles feel like he deserves everything he's given, including the weak shove that nearly causes Waylon to fall backwards over the coffee table. For a second, something like fear flares up in the man's eyes, and that only makes Miles feel _worse_.

Very gently, he lifts himself to a better sitting position and tries to still the spin of his head and the rush of his senses, like wild vertigo. He doesn't want to be like this –but he can hardly exercise self-restraint when he feels so unwell.

The word sorry doesn't make it out of his mouth –by the time it reaches his lips, he's leaning forward again, vomiting all of the water and pills he had taken not a few hours ago.

The movement seizes his entire body and attention –the burn of it and the lack of control makes him feel wretched and helpless. When it ceases, though it feels as if it never will, he falls back and moans, too weak to move, or live. Sleep isn't an option for him now, but waking has hardly been gratifying. There's nought else to do but submit to Waylon's ministrations.

Slowly, mustering his courage, Waylon comes forward, proffering his thermometer strip. He moves the bucket to his left side and kneels down in front of Miles again.

"I'll get you some more Tylenol in a sec." He says, quietly, ignoring the transgression between them. "Hold still."

Miles doesn't want to admit that he finds Waylon's freezing hands somewhat reassuring and instead stares up at the ceiling, trying to swallow the taste of bile out of his mouth. Wistfully, he fiddles with the stump of his ring finger. After what can only be a minute but feels longer, Waylon's hands move away and he makes a noise of discontentment.

"You're a hundred-and-three, according to this." He stands up, then, looming over Miles despite being the smaller man. "Tell me if you want me to open a window or something."

Then, the man's shadow and cold hands are gone, and Miles isn't sure what to do with himself. He doesn't think he's going to be sick for a little while and risks turning onto his side, carefully.

"You should be an orderly." He says. That gets Waylon's attention.

"What?"

"Like, a nurse or something. You're good at being around sick people." His eyes do not seek out Waylon when he gives the compliment, a little unwillingly. Miles has never been very good at being grateful. Least of all to the man he feels owes him the world for holding him under.

It's not as if Waylon minds it. In fact, he counters very gracefully. "You've been passed out most of the day. I haven't really done much."

It's a little disappointing. It makes Miles frown and grumble. "Don't be modest, Park, it's boring."

"I –I'm not being modest." Waylon shrugs. "But you're not much bother."

Truth be told, it doesn't take much imagination to see Waylon as the nurturing type. Miles has always been too self-serving for that. He is too introspective too often.

It almost makes Mile feel bad –taking advantage of Waylon's nature without so much as a 'thankyou' to offer. Even now, he's too proud for it, and pushes some of the sheets off of him, feeling the fever set in again. "I'll write you into the foreword of my book as thanks."

There is real interest in Waylon's voice when he asks, "You're writing a book?"

"Everybody's writing a fucking book. I'll get around to it one of these days." The frustration in his voice only thinly veils the pain he's in. Another wave of unbearable heat burns him, and he shudders for a second, flinching in preparation for the inevitability that he'll be sick again –even if he has nothing left to throw up. "Would you get me a glass of water?"

Without a word, Waylon gets up and limps away. It's only a few seconds before he returns.

On drinking, it is cool and refreshing, but Miles can feel every drop go down, aware that it will be coming back up. He tries to focus on getting the sheets off of him and letting the chill of the room cool him down but it does nothing.

He needs something to take his mind off of the fever. Half-twisting, he looks for something to talk about. It's hard enough coaxing a few squeaks about of Waylon, let alone getting him to lead a conversation, though, so Miles knows he may be wasting his breath.

In a ragged voice, he manages something. "Your wife's pretty."

A staggered response is hardly a good sign. Least of all when it sounds as sheepish as it does. "Thanks?"

Why does he bother? "Not that I'd like to fuck her, Park. She's not exactly my type."

That gets Waylon's attention more. "D'you like blondes, or-"

Miles laughs. "Sure." He laughs some more and mumbles into the arm of the couch. "I don't really date women, for a start."

It's not something Miles is particularly shy about –lord knows that it hasn't been a touchy subject since the mid-nineties, and even then, every idiot who had ever seen an episode of 'Will and Grace' could get behind the notion. What surprises Miles is how nonplussed Waylon is about the whole thing.

That's another conversation for a very different time, when he isn't sweating like a whore in church of slipping from lucidity. "Tell me about her."

It's easy to tell when Waylon gets excited about something –his voice gets a little more inclined and he starts to appear alive. That change is almost instantaneous when Waylon gets his smile around the name. "Lisa?"

A yawn. "Sure. Where'd you meet, and all that."

There are a few seconds of silence. Miles is trying to get to sleep –or at least to unconsciousness. He doesn't really care about Waylon Park's wonderful domestic life and his beautiful wife and charming –he bets, well-raised kids. Waylon begins, oblivious.

"I met her in my last year at Berkley, actually." The pleasure in his voice is tangible. It's sweet, and dangerous, too. "She asked me to fix her laptop and we ended up watching reruns of 'Arrested Development'. I forgot about her laptop as an excuse to see her again."

"What a _catch_."

"I know."Waylon shakes his head. "But it worked another three or four times before we started dating. After graduation we rented this tiny apartment in California for a while, but I was pretty homesick. She likes Colorado, though –it's where we got married." Waylon swallows again, and then busies himself with looking at his hand. "I don't –I'm probably boring you."

Miles knows that at some point, Waylon has been telling these things and has been cast off –told not to ramble or something, and that's probably why the guy can't get enthusiastic for more than a few seconds before acting guilty about it. As if his own pleasure is some kind of sin.

Even though Miles is poor at comforting or assuring people, he tries. "I'm listening already. You might as well go on."

Unlikely though it seems, Waylon does, for want of further coaxing. "There's really not much more to it. She's –well, you know. I think she's the reason I'm still here."

That's when Miles stops being passive. He can't even laugh –because he wants to choke.

"That's _psychotic_."

"What?" Waylon's tone goes from very quiet speaking to a whisper, his enthusiasm made afraid. Miles doesn't mean to come off as abrasive, but it's always how he sounds. It's barely a defence, and does nothing to stop Miles from being even crueller.

He tries to sit himself up so his words come out clearer. "That's just –that whole idea is just _bullshit_. She didn't take that knife out of your fucking hands or get you out of that place, you moron, _you_ did. Like, I get that she can motivate you and all –I really do, but it's your fucking decision."

The whole thing is just making Miles burn up worse and worse. "I mean –think about it, Park. You want somebody else's life on _your_ hands? That's alot of pressure to put on one person. And it's not cute or romantic."

For once, Waylon is quick to suss it out. "Is that what happened to you?"

Miles goes very quiet for a few seconds. "What?" He underestimated how smart Waylon can be –because Waylon has been listening his whole life. He's good at it. That makes Miles furious. "Look, I'm trying to help you here. Take my advice –or _don't_, I don't give a shit." He sighs. "I'm going to sleep anyway."

That usually does the trick of staving off any affection or care Miles is owed. He doesn't mean to be so needlessly cruel to Waylon –the man who has been patient and looking after him all day, who deserves better, but he can't take the words back now.

To his surprise, though, Waylon isn't shaken off so easily. Instead, he sits on the edge of the sofa and feels Miles' brow again, met with less resistance. He doesn't say anything –and it makes Miles feel as if he should, just to clear the air.

"I'm sorry." He says, softly, staring up at the ceiling. "I –I'm not thinking straight."

"I know."

"I think I'm gonna be sick again."

"Alright." Waylon pulls away a little and frees up some space for him. God –Miles knows that he's probably just delirious from the rising fever and the extreme malnourishment he's undergoing from periodically vomiting, but he starts to feel cold in the stomach from snapping at Waylon. He's the only string keeping Miles tied down to the ground, the only person he knows in the whole city, and state.

He is Miles' silver mirror: and as much as it pains him to admit, they need eachother.

Limp, he leans over the bucket a little and spaces out –and he must be hallucinating to hear music, of all things. He can hear it far off, like some kind of lullaby, the only thing giving his consciousness enough buoyancy to stay afloat.

His shoulders tremble as he heaves, but there's nothing left to come out. All he can do is tremble, hoping that the worst of it is over. A warm, gentle hand starts to stroke his back, and a soft murmur isn't far off –for some reason, Miles is convinced it is someone else: he is convinced it is the first man he loves, and the tension in his shoulders falls into laxness.

Blindly, he reaches around and takes the hand, falling back into the pillow, letting his eyes fall shut. He keeps hold of the hand, though, murmuring something –he isn't really putting much thought behind it.

"Park?" He feels the hand he's clamped his around moving away and hears himself talk. "I'm sorry –about what I said about your wife Lucy-"

The hand in his tightens, and Miles hears a laugh. "Her name is Lisa."

"I think-" Miles yawns. His eyes squeeze shut until he can see stars. "You're brave and all –and your wife's fucking lucky 'cause you're loyal and everything. You're loyal and nice, y'know?"

There's some shifting –Miles' eyes are still closed, so he doesn't know, but then he feels Waylon's cold hands on his brow again, and the sensation of plastic or something: Waylon must be taking his temperature again.

After a little while longer, the touch disappears and he hears that soft voice, tremulous and practically tender, "A hundred-and-five. I think you're delirious."

"_You're _delirious." Miles hisses.

"If you get any worse, I'm going to call for an ambulance, alright?"

Worriedly, Miles tries to search for his steadiest, halest voice, ready to fight against Waylon's proposal. He'll stay in this room if he has to die here –if Miles is anything, he's stubborn.

"Don't do that." He stays, a little breathlessly. Opening his eyes, he tries his most earnest gaze, and searches for Waylon's face. Maybe it's the fever, but it's as if he's shimmering. Miles feels as if he's pleading with an apparition, "Please," He shakes his head, "You _owe_ me –you-..."

A hideous pain makes his whole body twitch, and it feels as if he's being snapped in half. All he can think of is orange skies –like fire, and the heat that burns hotter than fission and bullets and fury –he can remember the first time he saw Waylon Park –assaulted, small, bleeding from his guts and breathless.

He can remember the colour of Waylon's soul if he tries to –and it's softness, and the sudden feeling as if the life belonged to him, to complete the circle. He would finish it all –and he could, he had the means, he felt everything that every version of every single body ever felt and it made him sick with anger-

Half of him can still taste blood and memories –the other half wrenched sideways, hearing desperate cries, "Oh, god, Miles..!"

The memory starts to shake in his mind and fall apart, and he holds onto all of the piece, cutting himself a thousand ways –he was everything, and he remembers now, if only he can speak.

The headache burns itself into his skull. He can see ink blot tests on the inside of his eyes when he feels himself pulled back towards Waylon's voice.

"I killed him-" He says, in a strangled voice. "For _you_ –to save –to save-..."

His consciousness is still only half-lit, a wobbling reflection of grief. He feels himself being sat up, and the blood from his nose, of which there is far more this time, being cleaned. Waylon's hands feel so saintly and cold and clean –and Miles remembers them. He tries to speak, tiny words amounting to nothing more than gibberish, "I remember –remember, Park..."

Waylon's voice doesn't shake. Right now, when he has every right to feel afraid, his voice is steady and comforting when he lays another hand on Miles' face. "You need to rest. You're just –just sick, and it will make you feel better."

As he goes to withdraw, Miles clamps onto his wrist and swallows. "I remember," He says, croakily. "I tore him apart –to s-save you and get you out. To the car."

That gets Waylon's attention. He pauses, as if conflicted, and then swallows. He doesn't believe Miles, in truth, certain that it's just another symptom of the fever and delirium, but he wants to grant some comfort to the one ailing. Thusly, with a nod, he whispers, "You're going to work yourself up again. You need to sleep."

"You-"

Waylon takes his chin, gently, so that they're eye-to-eye, and gets out his most powerful voice, which is still predominantly a whisper. "Just this one last thing, for me, okay? Would you –would you get some sleep –for me?"

Miles doesn't nod, or close his eyes, or even speak. His eyes remain on Waylon's for a very long time, searching for something he isn't sure of.

Maybe he finds it –or maybe not. Waylon doesn't get to decipher it when a strong hand draws him in, and then he is kissing the man with a hundred-and-five degree fever, tasting blood and heat and dreams and he doesn't resist or pull back, half afraid and half-curious.

Miles is sloppy, but focused and loving and for a second, even if it only is a second, Miles is the only thing that Waylon can smell and touch and think and feel about. He is the axis that the universe spins on, for the shortest amount of time.

The knock at the door wrenches them apart. Waylon is sitting back, breathless, shaking his head, and Miles is staring at him, just as open.

"That was-" Waylon swallows. He stands up, quickly, and wipes his hand on the back of his sleeve like Miles tastes like sin. "I'm not-"

"I should go." Miles says, in a very quiet and light voice that doesn't suit him even the slightest bit. His eyes are wide and frightened –as if Waylon has taken the directions for how to go up. "I –I'm sorry."

Waylon cannot help himself from replaying the hilariously uncomfortable scenario they have gotten themselves into; looking back for some kind of warning sign. Miles hates him: he is the reason or all of the man's suffering, and despair and his fingers. But, is that's all so, why did he enjoy being pulled in?

And even more horrifying; why does he feel like it would be so easy to do again?

He doesn't watch Miles go –he doesn't need to. Rising on very shaky legs, he limps himself towards the door and tries to settle his breathing. The guilt feels like it's visible in his skin –and there's no doubt that everyone in the building can hear his heart thumping in his chest like a fist.

One shaky hand fixes on the doorhandle and wrenches it open.

Out in the hall his guilt has manifested itself. It's everything he has ever wanted –and it comes at the worst moment possible.

His throat is a pin-hole when he tries to speak. "Li-Lisa-..."

He can barely say it.


	9. Chapter 9

(AN: I'm going to be abroad for a week, so updates are going to be pretty slow. I won't be dead, though, just away.)

Lisa doesn't even waste a second.

She leaves her luggage out in the hall and throws both of her arms around him, so tight wad good and familiar that Waylon wishes that was the sole reason he can't say a word. Usually, Lisa is masterful at saving face –especially for the boys, but on contact with her husband, she starts to sob.

"Way," The whisper feels as if it shoots straight through his skin and into his bloodstream, making him dizzy. "_God_ –Way, I've missed you so much."

It takes Waylon a moment to realise that there are two pairs of hands clasping very tightly onto his pants leg. Lisa's hug doesn't break until she's a mess, and then Waylon gets to move himself to a slow crouch, his arms open.

James is getting out so many words all at once –his voice an exasperated whisper trying to tell his father that he missed him and loves him and he been well behaved so now they can go to the museum after all. And Colin doesn't say a word, but holds on even tighter and Waylon doesn't know how he has lived without them to anchor him to the ground.

It takes an embarrassing amount of his energy to left them up, both at once. But it leaves him free to have Lisa's full attention.

She looks every part as beautiful as his memory preserved. Over time, he was scared he would forget or exaggerate or distort, and when they finally reunited he wouldn't recognise her. But she is far more than his consciousness could have processed: even his most gracious daydreams of her fall short of her loveliness.

Lisa is crying, brazenly, her face fixed into a smile. Waylon won't cry –he can't. The hope and shock and taste of Miles all combine and leave him paralysed. He can barely get out words beyond, "You look so beautiful, Leese."

Her hand is warm on the side of his face. Her breathing is hitching, and shaking, and no words come.

Waylon carries the boys inside.

He sets them down, ignoring the difficulty on his right side, letting them explore the place. Miles is all but gone from the couch, his door down the hall closed. It's a small relief. Colin stays clutching onto him as if afraid he's going to lose his father again –his brother more resolute in exploring. Lisa brings in their bags from the hall and stands at the head of the kitchen table.

"This place is lovely," She says, roaming her eyes around the airy room. "God, I lost sleep thinking you were stuck in some seedy motel, but this is-"

The distance between them doesn't last long. How can it? When Lisa throws her arms around him he holds tight and can feel the warmth of her body and the smell of her hair and he is reminded of why the man he used to be smiled so big in all of those pictures. It feels like it has been a million years since they have been able to be this close –not since before Murkoff, and even if the hug is awkward because she's still wearing her thick coat, it's okay.

Everything is okay.

Lisa doesn't take off her coat, even though it's pretty warm in the room, and walks over to the sitting area. She calls to the boys to have them sit down –James wanders over from the hall, but Colin stays tight on his leg. It takes an awkward readjustment before he can lift him up and walk over to the couch, letting his son sit in his lap. It must have been one hell of a journey –he's falling asleep already.

Lisa pulls over one of her smaller bags and begins to open it. "Have you already eaten? I was going to order some takeout for us –it's been a really long day, and they've been really good."

It all seems so beyond him. Waylon leans his head on her shoulder and smiles, serenely, thinking that if he was going to die happy, he'd do it in this moment, Lisa's hand in his, her steadfast calm and beauty the salient if his eyes started to close.

"The room service is fast. I think they do pizza."

"Perfect." She retrieves a file about half an inch thick and a box beneath it. "While we wait, I think James wants to show you some of the cards and pictures he's been making for you while you've been away."

The boy strides to his father's side and waits for him to look at the first one. As soon as Waylon has it out, a little finger jabs right at it, and nods enthusiastically. "That's you, dad!"

Waylon can't help the little laugh. He tries to take in every little detail, and admires how green the grass is and how golden the sun is in all of these pictures, and how to James the rain is great and the snow is great and everything is great –he is one of the things Waylon is proudest to have put his name to.

Hard, vibrant lines of colour burst through the outlines plenty of times. The syntax is incorrect and the words are misspelled, but Waylon likes it better this way. He likes every sun drawn smiling, and every scene in every picture.

With a hand, he pulls James into him and pats his head softly. "They're great, James. I'll put them on the front of the fridge –so we can look at them everyday." He smiles down at the boy. "Your colouring's getting so good."

The boy grins up at him and looks just like Lisa when he does. "I practised lots, dad."

By this time, Lisa has already finished ordering the food and is holding something up for him to see. It's his box-set of the 'Back To The Future' films, and her smile besides it leads him to believe he's home already.

"I thought we could watch the first one while we wait for the food."

Waylon can't help but kiss her, feeling himself smile. As he goes to stand up, to put the film on, he tugs on her hand gently. "You want to take off your coat?"

"It's fine," she says, and then softer. "The boys'll be asleep by the time the film is over, and we could...we could have a shower, couldn't we?"

Waylon isn't the most intelligent man in the world, but he knows what that means. He has missed her spiritually and emotionally and in a million ways, but his physical need for her is harder to ignore, and he hopes it isn't crass of him to show his enthusiasm about that, of all things.

Pulling himself along the sofa, Waylon curls up on one end of the couch, his head in Lisa's lap, Colin asleep against his torso as the credits start to roll.

His head is empty of all the thoughts and voices that usually plague him –and this softness has replaced it. He can feel Lisa's bodyheat and vitality, and the soft snores of his youngest son.

He thinks –no, he's _certain_ of it now. He's _home_.

-

At some point after lightning strikes the clocktower, both of the boys are sound asleep.

He nudges her gently, vying for attention. As much as he loves the film, he has seen it before. It has been a long time since he has seen Lisa, intimately and alone, and he wants her. Lisa herself is illuminated by the television, her eyes reflecting the screen, inert to him.

He leans in too her gently, careful not to stir Colin, still sleeping on him. "Lisa?" It stirs her. She turns her head towards him and smiles. "I'm really glad you're here."

"You couldn't keep me away." She tells him. The look in his eyes is recognisable, and after a moment of looking at him, her eyes dropping from his to his lips, and then his body. They both know what happens now, because they've both been thinking about it. Lord, the thought of her skin still makes Waylon sick in the night, trembling with want and loneliness.

It is everything he wants when she dips her head a little and says, "Let's put the boys into bed."

Graciously, Lisa takes James, and Waylon leads with Colin down the hall to his room. The bed is more than big enough, and Waylon likes the idea of being close to all of them –each a powerful talisman to ward off dreams. Neither of the boys stirs when they are tucked in, and left with the glow of a single bedside lamp.

Then, they are alone.

Waylon thinks things are going to be simple. But when Waylon looks back at her the smile is gone, and lines are visible on her anxious face. Lisa has moved to the kitchen, and has taken her coat off very slowly, standing behind the chair as if it is a defence.

"Would you-..." she gestures to the chair opposite her, and looks at him with a very nervous smile. "Would you sit, for a second?"

Maybe Waylon isn't the most perceptive person in his the world, but if he knows anything it is Lisa. And the tone she's using, and the look in her eyes is only ever like this when something monumental is about to be exposed –like she's going to unleash an earthquake form her mouth and tear the building –and everyone in it apart.

Waylon doesn't argue, he slips in the seat across from Lisa and takes one of her hands across the wood.

"Leese..?"

She looks up, and lets out a small laugh. "I'm sorry –I thought I was going to keep it together better than this." One hand wipes away the fresh tears starting to fall. "I really did." And then she takes a very serious breath in and swallows, centring herself. "I've wanted to tell you this for a while –I promise, I have. But it never came up –when we were talking on the phone, and I wanted to do this face-to-face."

Waylon doesn't like the sound of it a bit. Is she going to leave him? Is this it? Over before he has even had a chance to-

"I'm not gonna leave you, Way." She looks at him, and then shakes her head, with this brilliant smile. "You're not getting out that easy, no sir." There is a brief false-start before she manages to continue. "You remember –you remember the morning before you started your contract? When we-..."

Her eyes drag to the bedroom where the boys are sleeping, as if they are old enough to interpret tone, let alone grasp the insinuation. But Waylon understands. Waylon remembers every second of it.

"I remember." He affirms. And then he realises where this is going –too early to be stopped by Lisa, who starts to nod, deliriously. "Leese, are you telling me that you're-"

"Yes," She's started to cry again, "Way, I'm pregnant. We're gonna have another baby."

It's that moment that Waylon feels himself space out –as if drawing back from reality to try to get some hold on the situation. His head is whirling like a car engine turning over or Christ spinning in his grave. His head is a merry-go-round of Miles' kiss and his children gripping onto him and Lisa-Lisa-Lisa-Lisa-...

It's her voice that draws him out of the circle, breaking it by stroking a soft finger over his knuckles. "Waylon?"

He thinks of the morning before the contract –their last morning _together._ Hushed up in the shower, pressed together like a secret in the pages of a bible, hissing out their moans one last time, moving together with such utter worship it might well have been a rain dance.

Waylon doesn't speak. His tongue is caught in a barbed wire snare and snaps back into his skull. That's okay: Lisa does the talking.

"I know it's not fair to spring this on you. And I wanted to tell you _so many times_ –you have to know I _did_, but it didn't seem right to tell you over the phone." Her hand is soft in his. She rises and comes around the table in front of him, kneeling so that they are even closer. "You don't have to do anything you're no ready to do. You can be as involved as you want."

Still, Waylon remains silent. He can't think of a thing to say –and all that remains in his head is the memory of them, newly evicted from their California residence, sitting on the steps outside of the building in the summer heat talking about what they were going to do when James was born. And how Waylon told her he grew up so lonely, no siblings or cousins or real friends, so he wanted a huge family with lots of sons and daughters.

It's twisted, when Waylon thinks about the way he's got _everything_ he _wanted_.

The silence is scaring Lisa. "Say something." She says, quietly.

He tries to. Lifting a sheepish hand, he touches her face and blinks owlishly. "Why didn't you say something?" Realising the trespass belatedly, Waylon draws back a little. "You should have said _some_thing-"

"I know." And then, as if to appease him, she's kissing him on the cheek and the nose and the brow and then finally on the lips, so sweet and true that Waylon wishes he could just calm his thoughts down and appreciate the feeling. "I'm sorry –I was scared, Way, I was just scared. I didn't know if you'd be ready..."

Waylon still doesn't know if he is ready, but the concept seems irrelevant now. It's not as if Miles asked him how ready he was.

"I've only known for a little while." Lisa looks up at hi tentatively. "I wanted-..." And then she throws a hand over her eyes like she's ashamed to be seen. "I wanted to surprise you. With some good news, for once."

He likes that idea. He wants to believe it, rather than the other possibility: that Lisa was so terrified of what Waylon would do –she was so afraid of him that she didn't say a word. And Waylon doesn't want her to be scared of him. No matter what she does.

So when he speaks, he finds the most comforting and supporting words he can. They both needs solidarity now. More than they have ever before.

He takes her into a warm hug and lets himself envision a time, forward from now where he doesn't think about dying. Where they live in a big warm house and the boys have their own rooms and they have a huge garden and they don't have to work if they don't want to, and they're happy and he doesn't have dreams or take pills.

When he lets go, Lisa looks up at him. "I know you're dealing with lots of things. I saw –I saw your video, and if you don't think you can-"

"Leese,"

"And I can understand if you're mad at me-"

"Leese." A firmer hand serves him better, and he looks her in the eyes with the most serious and tender look he has. "I always wanted a daughter."

He moves to kneeling with her and kisses all of her tears until they are a mess, holding eachother together, taking in these enormous breaths as if living is suddenly so much more. Lisa feels so much firmer than she used to –so much realer and stronger. He feels as if he has shrunk to a mere matter of inches. But that doesn't scare him because for so long in the darkness, he's home now and he's going to be okay because he's got Lisa and he has to get better because he doesn't want his children to remember him crying.

He doesn't want that to be Colin's first memory.

Eventually, they help eachother up, wandering down the hall to the bathroom ad losing pieces of clothing in the way. Kissing devolves into nips and whispers and the moment he feels hot water on his back and Lisa's legs wrapped tight around him, he forgets everything but the present.

Miles' kiss was a lightning bolt or hurricane blowing through town. But Lisa's is the clear sky of home.

And people always come home.

-

Some hours after his fever breaks, Miles stirs.

He comes to in the black of his room, and lurches forward, clutching a fistful of soft hotel linen to remind himself of where he is. Very faint sounds of traffic permeate the room from the slice of air his window breathes, and it helps to ground him.

The first thing that comes to his mind is a vision of a man in a suit. A nice, bloody suit, and how the colour of his soul was ugly and green –the colour of envy and money and infection. He remembers seeing every detail and inch of him and his soul when he died –every stitch of the body pulled apart in a momentary, murderous rage because he was trying to take what belonged to Miles.

Then, orange. Clear sky. And then the fall.

Miles falls back, the headache making his skull feel heavy as a bowling ball. The blood follows soon after, and he wipes a swear away with his finger. He knows he'll need some of the ibuprofen from the kitchen to soothe the burn in his head. This kind of pain, followed by the blood, doesn't go so easily, and last time he woke up feeling worse, and not better for the rest.

Deciding against more sleep, he gets up in the dark and finds a shirt. The snow has turned to sleet and it makes for a nice sort of white noise as he dresses, and opens the door.

With one glance at the sofa, his mind races to Waylon, and then he nearly fold in half, convinced he'll be sick for a completely different reason than fever. God, he knows that he's gone out of his mind, and that he's lonely, but he doesn't know how he could've been so desperate. How stupid.

Even if Waylon gets to be dumb and comforting and pale, and look too much like _him_.

Miles doesn't want to think about it –no, he won't. Firm, he takes the ibuprofen with a few sips of water and then settles down on the couch, finding the remote between the cushions. There's a movie in there, but he prefers to surf. At home he liked to watch reruns of old cartoons and the cooking channel, sometimes, even if he never had the time to cook.

There's something oddly comforting about the preparation of food. It reminds him of his mother.

Tonight, there's nothing on, so he flicks for a while, unable to get absorbed in anything at all. At least he feels a little more recovered. His head aches like hell and he feels horribly cold, but there's not a change he'll be sick now. Half because the fever is breaking and half because he hasn't had anything in his stomach since yesterday evening.

For a while, he stays like that, drowsing gently against the flicker of the screen, until he feels a hand on the elbow if his sleeve. When he looks down, more than a little spooked, a very small boy is staring up at him with these enormous eyes.

The kid points to the screen and says, "Bubblegum."

Miles doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have any gum –bubble or otherwise, if that's what he's being asked. He lowers the remote and turns back to the kid, helplessly.

"Bubblegum." The kid points at the television just as the soft, round colours of a cartoon appear on screen and disappear. Oh. He's not after something to eat. He just wants to watch television. Miles makes a noise of understanding and change the channel, leaving the remote on the table.

By all accounts, the child doesn't mind him. He clambers up onto the couch next to Miles and watches very passively, sucking his thumb. They stay like that for a while, actually, and Miles thinks that he likes company that doesn't ask too many questions. It makes a nice change.

After a while, he hears the door down the hall creak –Waylon's door, and buries himself in the chair. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk at all, but knows that Waylon will press because he still thinks that there is an answer to most things and that people are rational and explainable. And Miles is his exact opposite: he thinks that things are random and scattered and usually have no significance; he swears what he did in the grip of fever was not significant.

Not Waylon, but wearing his shirt. His pretty wise treads down the hall towards the television and pauses at the threshold. Miles can see her, partially illuminated by the soft, primary colours of the television.

She is pretty. And smart, he bets, and brave and nice and she probably just about belongs with Waylon like everybody seems to belong to somebody else. She reminds Miles is his own loneliness, and for no other reason than that does he try to ignore her.

Her voice is friendly. "James." The kid in the chair turns around, sucking his thumb guiltily. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get back into bed. You can watch some more of your show in the morning."

For a second, the kid doesn't move, and Lisa moves over to him, picking him up, and turning towards Miles. She looks at him, and the corner of her mouth twitches, as if she cannot help but say something.

"I'm Waylon's wife." She begins, holding out a hand, and then making a show if ignoring Miles' mutilations when he takes hers, absently. "I've heard alot about you. I mean, without your footage, we might never...—you've been so helpful." Her smile is honest. "I don't know if Way'd be getting this help if it weren't for you."

Miles doesn't really want to be known as the one who protects Waylon Park but he's building up a reputation and his record of action does seem to be taking on a trend. Uncomfortable, not humble, he shrugs and looks at the floor. "I didn't really do anything." He says.

It looks like she wants to say something else, and Miles feels in no way qualified or well enough to be getting in to a conversation right now, so he turns off the television and leaves them all in moderate darkness. The only light in the whole place is the milky yellow of a lamp down the hall, and that's the way she goes, taking the suggestion for what it is and carrying the kid away.

There's nothing for it. The whole business with sickness and beings looked after and doing something as monumentally stupid as kissing Waylon just keeps repeating on Miles until he decides to go to bed.

At least if he's unconscious, he doesn't have to think about it.

-

The next day, the snow is more of an afterthought than an extreme condition.

Miles rises early to avoid the rest of 103, and heads out on the perilous walk to the church, his head down, his hands in his pockets. It's open when he arrives, which is relieving, and inside is every bit as warm and gold and beautiful as he remembers it. There's no choir rehearsal today, so there's no music to fill the grandness of the space. It makes Miles' footsteps feel monumental as they echo across the church.

For the first few minutes, he sits in a pew to gather his thoughts. It has been easily a week since last he was here, and he needs to conceptualise what the hell he's confessing for. Not for anger. No, Miles feels he has been saint-like in keeping himself calm. Perhaps pride: Miles knows he can be prideful, but always considers it an endearing habit.

Truthfully, he knows, and there isn't any sense in avoiding it any longer. He stands up and goes to the confessional, remembering the ritual as a child remembers how to ride a bike again.

Inside is nice and warm. Miles feels like he could live in a confessional permanently, sharing the small, warm space with every one of his sins.

"My last confession was a week ago." He begins, his words sounding so childish to his own ears.

Of course, the implacable stillness of the voice that replies to him is in direct contrast, and in a way it's sort of comforting. Miles can't gleam any obvious judgement in the man's voice. "What are your sins?"

"Jealousy."

There's a small pause. Miles wants to leave it at that but he needs to give more.

He heaves a sigh. "I'm alone. And...and I don't want to be, and I'm surrounded by all these people who have it so much better, and so much _easier_. I get so nasty about it, too –and it's not like I mean to be, because they're _nice_ people and all, and they do deserve to be happy, but..."

Miles hates himself for it. "...don't I deserve to be happy, too? Haven't I-" his face heats up and he starts to feel himself become frustrated, his anger clouding the message of the confession. "Haven't I been through_ enough_ already?"

The priest doesn't seem to understand him, or give it much thought. "Is one ever truly alone under the eyes of god?"

Miles thinks he ought to show the man his fingers. His scars. He ought to describe what he saw Walker do, and then ask again. Because god and religion have nothing to do with it, and this is the only place Miles feels he can go to get these sins out of him.

"That's not what I mean." He says, helplessly. "I've been having awkward silences with god my whole life, y'know? Our –our conversations are pretty one-sided. I want somebody –somebody who can talk _back_."

The priest sighs at that. "Are you sure you have come to the right place?"

This is the right place, Miles knows. But not for how he feels right now. Right now, he doesn't need to confess as much as he needs to go home. He needs to go back home and retrace his roots and speak to all his old friends and feel less isolated and faraway from the rest of the world.

He's sick of feeling like he is the last in a long line, tied to Waylon Park aboard the ark, watching all over life be scrubbed from existence.

Miles leaves shortly after that. He forgets all about god, for now, focusing on something else. The streets are busy but he doesn't say a word to anybody. He buys a solitary coffee for himself and wanders out to the smell of cigarette smoke.

Miles hasn't smoked in five years, at least, because the only person he ever loved would've died before they kissed a smoker and he had been so prepared to abandon his own pleasures and beliefs for the two intense years they had together. Truth be told, he never really committed to the habit in the first place, never having much affinity for standing out in the freezing cold, his hands shaking too much to light the damn thing.

He feels so wretched. Still half-sick, and lonely and jealous and a million miles away from home. Who can blame him?

The next store he sees, he wanders in and buys a zippo lighter and two packs his cigarettes –whatever brand is available, and sits on a bench in some park area. He lights the first cigarette and smokes every single one in the pack, using the lit one to light the next one, until they're all gone, and the midday sun is coming out.

All in all, it takes him just under an hour and a half, but he can think of worse ways to spend the day.

It takes him six hours to go back to the hotel.


	10. Chapter 10

(Back from my holiday: apologies for the slow devices!)

First, there is only darkness and sound.

Soft, his mother's voice singing, shimmering and tilting as if gliding across the crest of ocean waves as it comes to him. It is joined by Lisa's, the song gentle to him, and then by a million others, each half-recognisable, but further away. As if inside a seashell pressed to his ear, cupping the sea's incoherencies.

They sing like the dead –it has not been enough for them to lice, and they must sing about it. _Down to the river...down to the river to pray..._

At last, his vision comes to him, the golden light of his wedding day, pews upon pews filled with singers either side of him, blurring together in sunlight and beauty. He feels himself stepping forward, towards the gold silhouette of Lisa, her gown blending with the floor of the aisle so it looks as if she has been raised from the ground, pure as wheat and beautiful.

The soft hiss of a tide slips beneath the whisper of the song and Waylon looks down, finding the aisle filling with clear green water, bright as summer, wetting his shoes and socks and feet until he feels like a child again. At first, the whisper of the water is calming and it keeps him entranced, treading the water but getting no closer to Lisa, but then the colour of the water begins to run murkier and murkier –the green fading to blue and then at last to black.

Waylon looks up, and the singers are continuing, their song getting faster, their words flowing together until the song doesn't sound like anything. Now the water is licking higher, at his waist, plunging his lower body into numbness and ice. He tries to pull back, unable to see Lisa above the water's pall, but cannot. A great atlantic chain ties itself in cruel knots at his fingers in wrists until his hands are bound together and being pulled forward.

The water rises higher and higher until he is spitting out sour, inky water, thrust beneath the crest of the wave until he sees nothing and hears nothing but the dull shake of the song through the water.

Hearing comes to him in furious bursts –his own desperate cries dissonant against the notes of the song. _Lisa! –to the river to –Lisa!—that good old way –Li-..._

Eventually, the water begins to clear, it's blackness leaving him shaking, near the altar, staring out at the vast emptiness of a dark room. The pews are sparkling with drops of water, the dark wood still wet but empty. Waylon is shivering, dressed in a soaked gown that comes away from the pale of his chest immodestly.

He stands alone, his hands still bound by the rusty chain, secured to the altar, unable to move.

The lights flicker and fail until he is plunged into darkness again for not even a second. It's all it takes for the groom to appear.

Waylon can see the blue of his wild eyes as mere pinpricks, stood a small ways off, tugging desperately for some give in the great chain. It's no use. It's no use at all because Waylon is trapped and the chain is getting tighter and tighter, pulling him towards the groom and his shard of white, brilliant death.

One partially-gloved hand is beckoning him to come closer, as if he goes by choice, as if the rust isn't cutting into his skin and leaving lines of blood on his hands where he is fighting desperately –he doesn't want to be cut, he can't, he needs to get out and survive, and Lisa is nowhere to be seen and all that there is left is silence.

The chain drags him closer, his feet gaining no traction on the floor and he is so close to his death that he can smell the blood and humanity on the other man and his instinct is to close his eyes to it, and run in the other direction. Waylon is scared and helpless and he just wants to see her face as he dies, that's all –oh, God, he thought he was better than this.

A cry escapes his mouth, and he fights until he feels the large hand squeezing his bare shoulder, and the groom looks at him with such utter admiration, and says only one word.

"Waylon?"

All lights die –and Waylon is screaming.

The hand gripping him is frighteningly strong, and he throws himself away from it, finding nothing to grasp in the darkness, his face met with cool carpet, the sound of life scaring him into senselessness. He feels for some kind of space and jams himself into it desperately, curling up and making himself invisible. He wants to be invisible –non-existent. Gone.

Waylon stays like that in the darkness for a very long time, his knees brought up to his chest, the sound of his own breathing comforting him. Perhaps it isn't a long time at all –and it simply feels like an eternity until his pulse calms and he no longer feels afraid of his own shadow.

Eventually, he sees warm light illuminate the space, and he realises that he isn't tied –he's okay. He's okay and it's only the hotel and he's under the bed, still curled up on himself even though he's better. As his body relaxes, he sees two small feet drop over the side of the bed, and his oldest son drops onto his belly and crawls towards him.

Lisa's hand fixes on the boy's ankle and pauses on his progress. She pulls him back with a very quiet voice. "Let him be for a minute, sweetheart. Daddy's just had a bad dream, that's all."

Waylon looks his son right in the eyes and sees all of that fear and uncertainty where once there was pure idolatry. James gets to his feet slowly, and there is a small shift on the bed above him. She must have put him back to bed. It's only then that Waylon tunes in to the very faint whimpering.

How could he do that? How could he scare them like that?

After a while, he hears Lisa's voice above him, the most cautious he has ever heard her.

"Way, I'm coming under now. Are you –is that okay?"

Not a move is made. Honestly? Waylon is far from okay. But he's not dreaming anymore, and he won't let himself be in pain or tired right now, because there are larger matters to hand. He has to help Lisa believe that he's okay.

In a small voice, he says, "Alright."

He holds his breath when he sees her knees, and then she lays herself down on the floor so that she can see him. Her face is a picture of tension and concern –the taughtness of her expression making every freckle on her dark face visible. Waylon is glad to see her eyes –like two diamonds glistening in the jungle.

She reaches out with a very gentle hand and ghosts over his fingers. "It's okay." She tells him. "It's okay. We're okay. You were only dreaming."

"_No!"_ It comes out of him like a bolt of sudden lightning. Waylon used to dream –of bizarre things, as a way to filter the mundane and unconscious. But what he just saw –the chain, the groom and his eyes and the feel of his enormous hand: that was too real to be merely a dream. "No, it was-"

Her hand goes tighter in his. "It was just a dream. You're here. You're here with us, and you're okay now." Her grip moves backwards like she's trying to pull him into the light. She's always been trying to pull him towards lucidity and goodness, and though Waylon still tastes fear at the back of his mouth, he follows her.

"I never-..." his voice is so tiny, even to himself. "I never meant to _scare _you...—you or the boys. I'm –I'm _sorry_. I never-..."

Lisa looks at him with real conviction –so true that he doesn't recognise her love, at first. "We're fine. We're –we're together now. That's all that matters."

Waylon crawls towards the light on his hands and his knees, trembling, unable to provide much comfort to anyone. He can still taste inky water and blood, and feel the cold on his skin. Words fail him. There's not a thing he can say –nor Lisa, to wash away any of it.

All he can do is comfort the boys –pulling them in close, and making sure they aren't afraid anymore.

Lisa is patient with him: stroking his back, giving him soft words to cling to. Lisa has seen the footage, but she will never understand. Good, he thinks –he hopes that Lisa never has to understand, and that the boys never want to.

There's only one other person in the universe who understands him. Not out of choice or wisdom or philosophy, but out of Waylon's own guilt.

And it's not Lisa. But she does all she can to help.

-

"I want your help."

It takes a very long time and the very last of his dignity, scraped from the soles of his feet, to get out those four words.

Miles grinds out the words, practically trembling with the difficulty of the phrase. This is not the person he wanted to come to. The help he needs is nothing so straightforward as just talking: Miles wants normalcy and things to do, and love and carnality.

Miles has decided, after many cigarettes, and after enough time to think, that he finally knows what he wants. Who he wants.

But for now, he has to settle on this.

Across from him, it appears to give the therapist great satisfaction to hear those words. He steeples his fingers and nods, "That's what I'm here for, Miles. Our sessions are completely at your disposal. What do you want help with?"

There are too many answers to that question. Miles needs a million things: he needs to fuck somebody and he needs answers and a lobotomy and he needs his fingers back. His life back.

Instead, he shrugs. It is never one single thing he wants: he wants the world.

"I just want to get back to how I used to be. I never –I never used to be so angry all the time."

The therapist nods, as if in sympathy. As if he knows. "Trauma can change a person. Emotional stability is a good goal to have." And then, a pause as the man tears out a page from his notepad and passes Miles it, with a pen. "I'd like you to write that down for me. A list of goals that you'd like these sessions to focus on."

The pen does not move in Miles' hand. He finds it difficult to write with just the stump of his finger –but that's not the reason he doesn't write. The suggestion embarrasses him.

"This is dumb." He says, blandly.

The therapist looks at him, disappointed. "It will help you with your recovery, Miles. Why don't you try it?"

Miles sighs heavily. With difficulty, he manages to write in very jumbled cursive 'emotional stability', and then he pauses, looking up as if searching for the answers to his problems in the eyes of someone else.

"I don't know." He mutters, "I guess it would be good to get back into writing again, but that's not gonna happen anytime soon."

The therapist seems genuinely surprised by that. "Why not, Miles? It can often be a cathartic exercise. Waylon seems to have taken to it very well."

"That's completely different."

Miles can feel the jealousy rise in him, even though it's not at Waylon and his wide, surprised eyes but at the beautiful form of the woman he only say illuminated by soft television life. How could he be jealous of Waylon when he could be jealous of Waylon's wife, who has seen nothing of horror?

The therapist studies him, and looks like he can see right through Miles and into his jealousy and lust and hate and the strange amalgamation of all three.

"Why is it different?"

Miles doesn't know how to speak, but he gets something out, eventually. "I can't –I can't do it. And even if I fucking _could_, what the hell would that achieve?" The ore he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. And all he ever does is get angrier thesedays and at this point he can barely control himself. "When he wakes up from a nightmare he can call his fucking wife and then everything'll be _okay_ but I don't have _anybody_ –I'm fucking alone! You-"

Practically spitting out his words, Miles throws up the paper and wants to laugh. "You want me to write _that_ down? Put _that _in my fucking _blog_?"

The therapist seems –not shocked, but pleased. Like he's glad that this awful side of Miles is finally surfacing. And for a while he says nothing, watching Miles' aggravated breathing settle until he's just sitting there with nothing left.

"When was the last time you engaged in a close relationship with someone, Miles? A friendship, or a romantic relationship?" the therapist reviews his notes.

Miles swallows. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Because your emergency contact is a man called-"

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" Miles snaps. He throws down the pen and fiddles with the stump of his finger in an attempt to distract himself. "And I don't see how holding hands with somebody is going to make me feel any better."

The therapist doesn't ever flinch or bite at Miles' temper. It's actually sort of nice. It helps Miles to get out everything he's got in him without feeling guilty afterwards, and suddenly he can see the appeal of the therapy, even if he doubts that Waylon does any shouting _ever_.

After a while, when the atmosphere is safer, the therapist starts to talk again. "Trauma can often lead to social isolation, and that can make anxiety and depressive episodes worse. All I'm suggesting is that you try to create a support system. Try talking to your friends or parents."

Miles wants to criticise that suggestion –but when he goes to spout a witticism he finds none, and when he considers it, the idea of having someone to talk to: someone to grab onto in the midst of some terrible dream...it's something that sits on the right side of him, for once.

"That's-..." He begins, and then trails off. The alien suggestion of a smile starts on his face. "That's actually a good idea."

-

"You think so?"

The gloves make it difficult to squeeze Lisa's hand, but Waylon does anyway, staring at her and not the snowy street ahead. Her beauty is fantastic, especially given the smile on her face. There isn't a bit of fear on her face now, and it comforts him to no end.

"Yes! This is a wonderful idea." She says, pulling James out of the way of another pedestrian. "The boys are going to love this," she turns to Colin, at her husband's side, smiling at him. "You want to see the dinosaurs?"

The child nods, meekly, but there is zeal in his eyes, and James provides more than enough enthusiasm than would ever be necessary, practically vibrating on the spot. All of them are happy, and calm and it helps Waylon to believe they've forgotten all about last night.

He never wanted her to see him like that. Nevertheless –nevertheless, she came, and she saw.

They walk on a little, and something is pressing in Waylon's head that he wants to discuss. Truthfully, there are many things, and he can't stop thinking about Miles for the life of him. His kiss –his nose, and everything he babbled about remembering. The man is nowhere to be seen today, and Waylon doesn't want his fever to worsen if the man sits, out in the cold, all alone.

But the more pressing matter, even heavier in his mind than his nightmares and more binding than that great atlantic cable. He has to talk about it sometime.

"Leese." He starts, and his tone is different than before: less entertained and more solemn. Enough to indicate a change of pace. "How long have you known about the baby?"

His eyes meet hers, and there is nothing to fear in the gaze: not a single ounce of mendacity or nastiness, and he knows that she hasn't sprung this on him out of disloyalty or fear, but out of some more human, forgivable reason. She isn't afraid of him –she couldn't be.

"I'm not sure." She says, quietly. "Maybe three weeks ago, I went to my OB and that's when I knew for certain, but I guess I suspected it for a little while." Lisa's hand tightens in his. "I couldn't be sure –I thought it was just the stress of what had happened."

Waylon swallows. His next question is the hardest to speak, and to stomach. "Were you afraid of telling me?"

For some slanderous reason, Lisa laughs at that. She laughs with her mouth open and smiles so nicely that Waylon could forget the world. "God, _no_. I could definitely squash you, _stringbean_." Waylon shoves her gently, embarrassed. He wants her to see him as he sees her: just like in the family pictures, healthy and happy and _normal,_ and not like he is now; sunken-eyed, emaciated. "I wanted to call you the moment I found out –but I didn't know if you were ready to hear it. You were still in hospital. I thought-..."

"It's okay." He says, gently. And then, after a short pause. "How far along are you?"

"Thirteen weeks on Tuesday." She turns her face away and sighs. "James, honey, stay close to me."

In the moments they have been distracted by conversation, Waylon hasn't noticed how dense and busy the sidewalk has been getting until they can barely move, the path blocked by an enormous wall of people. They pull together, by instinct: keeping the boys as close as they can.

James is the first to question, tugging on his mother's sleeve insistingly. "The dinosaurs, mom!"

Gently, she strokes the top of his head. "We're nearly there, honey. It just looks there are some roadworks ahead."

It isn't even remotely of interest to Waylon so long as they get there eventually. And people are starting to shirt into a small line to get around the construction. It's noisy already on the street –the insane mix of car horns and traffic and conversations all mixing together, but Waylon lets them serve as a semi-pleasant backdrop.

Until the sound of the buzzsaw starts up.

Waylon freezes –he feels himself go taught and panic rises in him, the sound drawing closer and closer and the heat rising in his body –the smell of the street overwhelming him –_the flesh, the flesh and meat and fire..._

He falls back, and all of that fear returns to Lisa's eyes when she turns around. Already too late.

"Waylon!"

- 

"Park?"

What do you say to the married man that you kissed, the very last time you spoke?

"Jesus Christ, Park, what the hell happened to you?"

Looking the sorriest Miles has ever seen another human being outside of Mount Massive, Waylon slumps through the door to 103, half-dragged by his wife who is supporting them, proceeded by their children. All of them look so bright-eyes with terror, but Waylon seems barely conscious, his nose bloody and his eyes purple.

He isn't even walking and he's trembling violently.

His wife sets him down in the nearest chair and fetches him a glass of water, stroking the nape of Waylon's neck. His head is bowed, but he makes a small noise of appreciation. It's really not much of a sight, but the children are staring, the oldest in utter confusion, the youngest in fear.

The smaller one grips hard to his father's leg and whimpers in a voice even smaller than Waylon's usually is. "Daddy..?"

Waylon's wife leads the boys away, towards the sink as a graceful distraction, pulling a chair in front of the sink. "Come wash up for dinner, boys. Then we can order some takeout, yeah?"

"But the dinosaurs-!"

She turns and hoists the taller boy onto the chair so he can reach the sink. "They're still going to be there next time. We'll go another day."

"But-"

"Wash your hands, James."

It continues like this for a little while –Miles tunes out, and moves from the sofa, his head swimming when he gets up suddenly as the fever hasn't completely dissipated. He wants to get a better look at Waylon, but the man's face hasn't lifted up. For a moment, he suspects that maybe he's tired, or just drunk, until he notices Waylon's breathing.

He's practically crying.

Maybe Miles doesn't remember everything in stunning clarity, but he recognises this strong, familiar feeling when it overwhelms him as it has done before, shaking every fibre of his being into attentiveness and tenderness, for once. His every instinct thrills at the noise, and he wants to protect Waylon from whatever it is that's making him feel this way.

He wants –for some bizarre, embarrassing reason, to see the man survive.

But, of course, it has been years since Miles has had to pull a soft voice for anybody, and the timing is all wrong. What place does Miles have there, in between his kids and his wife? And what the hell does Miles know about comforting people anyway? He doesn't know Waylon –not really, and he doesn't even know how to control his own temper.

Uselessly, he shrinks back, and lets them be in the kitchen. He stays in his room for the rest of the evening, emailing old friends, and trying to establish himself somehow. The door goes at some point –likely room service, but otherwise the sound is minimal. Not once does Miles hear Waylon's voice.

Eventually, they vacate the sitting area, and Miles moves into the empty space. He is glad to be left alone with the static of the television, condemned to silence where he doesn't have to hear the sounds of dull lovemaking or conversation.

Even surrounded by family, it sounds as if Waylon is just as lonely as he is, and despite the ugliness of the notion, it makes Miles feel better.

Around midnight, he's sitting by the open window in the corner, smoking again while he thinks of nothing in particular when the door down the hall creaks very softly and a slender shadow lays itself down on the hall floor.

Waylon doesn't see him at first, skirting past the open window in nothing but his shirt and underwear. His limp is very noticeable when he gets towards the sink and pours himself a glass of water. It has been some hours since Miles saw him last, but the man is still a shock of white, and he's still shaking. Miles puts out the cigarette and stands up, coming around the sofa.

"Jesus, Park." He says. Waylon must not have heard him approach, and turns with a squeak of fright, the glass slipping out his hand and shattering on the floor, his mother hand flying to his mouth to silence his breathing.

When he sees Miles, he goes slack against the counter, cutting his feet on the shards of glass but remaining inert to what must be excruciating pain. Waylon doesn't fight a bit, and Miles has to drag him –most literally, towards a chair to sit him in it. Waylon doesn't fight that, either, and starts to sniff pathetically.

His feet are bloody as hell, but that's not the scariest part. It's that he's just sitting there, crying, not doing or saying anything. What should Miles do to make this better? How can he fix this?

Kneeling before him, Miles looks up at Waylon with his eyes wide. He finds no words that feel helpful or relevant –not a single, friendly drop of courage at his own reflection in the silver mirror. There is nothing between them: they are the standing in the same place, as the same person, and a thousand miles in opposite directions.

They have not been this close since-

"I'll get your wife." He says, helplessly, rising and making a start for the hall, only to feel a desperate hand clutch his sleeve frighteningly tightly. When he turns, Waylon's eyes are imploring him –begging him as if his life depended on it, and Miles is bound by something deeper than morality when he pauses.

Useless, he comes to kneel in front of Waylon again, his voice all stricken with grief. He despises being put in this situation.

"What should I do?" Giving Waylon a good hard shake, he feels the volume of his voice incline sharply. "C'mon, Park, for Christ's sake, what do you want?!"

"I want to die!" For the first time in all the time he has known an imagined Waylon, the whistleblower and human being alike, the man raises his voice. Not loudly, but it is such a sharp contrast from his usual whisper that it frightens Miles.

And then he realises what has been said, and fear burns white-hot in the bottom of his stomach. He doesn't know what to do –it scares him so much that all he can think to do is smack the other man hard until his cries are even more vicious.

"I can't –I can't do it anymore..." Shaking his head, Waylon exhales shakily, his misery making him unable to breathe. "I'll never get better, will I? I'm always going to be like _this_...a-aren't I?"

Miles has only considered him like this a few times. He has always assumed that the soft bandaid of Waylon's wife and children and stability make it easier for him –he never thought that their expectations may be the cause of so much unhappiness, and desperation and frankly he thinks he is glad to be alone.

"Like _what_?" But, knowing it will do no good. "Waylon, c'mon..." the name sounds strange in his mouth. It does not belong to him."There is _nothing_ wrong with us. We already made it –we fucking _survived_..."

At that, Waylon coughs angrily, and lets out a derisive laugh. "_Why_?" He looks Miles right in the eyes. "What did I survive_ for_? If I –If I was smart, I would have...would have _died there_ instead of doing this to Lisa-"

Miles hits him again. "Park, listen to yourself!" His hand throbs from the force of the hit and Waylon's face is all red and bowed with subordinate. He hates himself for the violence, but knows that if Waylon really is hysterical, it's the only way to get through to him. Then, when he's certain that Waylon has calmed down a little, he takes his shoulder. "What happened to you, today? You were –you were fine yesterday."

Making vague gestures with his hands, Waylon whimpers. "I thought he was coming for me –to kill me, and I didn't know what to do and I woke up but it still felt so real-..." After a few very big, shallow breaths, he looks down at Miles. "I think I'm going c-crazy."

"You're not crazy." He says, rising. "We both seen things that nobody should _ever _have to see –and what'd be crazy is just _forgetting _about it; y'know? It'd be crazy to just snap back into things."

That seems to give Waylon pause, He tries to push himself off of the chair, nodding, sniffing quietly, but he can't put a foot on the ground without pushing the splinters of glass further in. Miles has practically forgotten about them.

Wincing, he holds up a hand as if to command Waylon to stay. "Sit. I'll get some tweezers or something."

Miles is only gone for about a minute, and returns with tweezes, and a washcloth and a glass of water. Truth be told, it all seems like an awful fuss, and Waylon thinks that he'd just like a dreamless, paralysing sleep, but he knows that it's necessity. Even if it feels oddly intimate to have Miles grasping his ankle.

"This doesn't look so bad." He says, quietly. "Well, you look like shit, Park, but there isn't all that much glass in your foot."

A bold finger traces a tender section of skin and Waylon's leg jerks out in pain. Heating up with shame, he tries to pull away from the other man. His breathing still imitates crying when he tries to speak. "I sent you—to that pl-place. Why do you care about me?"

That's when Miles pulls the first piece of glass, expecting some great cry from Waylon, but hearing only a small hiss. He thinks about the colour of Waylon's soul: the colour of his lips and veins and voice. Blue, the most human colour.

He pulls another piece of glass thinking about it. He had felt everything that every version of his form had ever felt: he could feel Billy's spite and want for blood, but what overwhelms all of it, and what Miles takes from his mess of memories is the sight of the sunrise, painting the man gold.

It isn't just Waylon's life, or his story. It's Miles', too, and it doesn't end here.

When he looks up at Waylon, the man leans towards him and swallows. "Your nose is bleeding again."

"I know."

This time, Miles moves forward until he is eye-level with Waylon and they are mere inches apart: close enough for Miles to see all of the fear and nightmares and uncertainty down in the lines of the other man's face. With his right hand, he reaches out and takes it. Nervously, his eyes go from Waylon's eyes, to his mouth, and then up again.

His eyes close, but before he can move a tremulous murmur shakes out of Waylon, in a whisper once more.

"I can't do this, Miles. Not to Lisa."

Miles opens his eyes, and sees that Waylon's gaze is shining with grief and worry and something else: something warmer. Without letting go of Waylon's cheek, he nods.

"I know."

For some obscene reason, it makes Waylon laugh, a strange little noise bubbling up from his throat. Miles has to laugh with him, at the ridiculousness of it all. Of what they've become.

They stay like that for some amount of time. It feels unfairly short, but any amount of time would. And then Waylon is gone just as quietly as he came, tracking blood up the hall and into his bed.

Neither of them dream that night.


	11. Chapter 11

Miles rises at an ungodly hour the next day.

He hasn't slept like this in what feels like a thousand years, and when he wakes he feels rested, and hopeful. It's not quite light outside and as he turns on his side, and for a second he has forgotten about all of it: that place, and his fingers, and all he can think of is how comfortable he is, and how nice Waylon's laugh had been.

When he remembers, it is neither sad nor distressing: it is a fact of his existence. It is what it is.

After a few seconds, he gets dressed in the half-lilac gloaming: putting on a shirt and pyjama pants, and taking the packet of cigarettes off of his night stand. Just the smell of the tobacco comforts him: it reminds him of his mother, and of his youth. Entering the sitting area, he opens one of the large windows a touch and lights the cigarette.

It's then he notices the very quiet hum of the shower –and the veil of smoke emanating from the bottom of the bathroom door. The noise of the shower still rings alarm bells in Miles' head: it makes him think of bloody bathwater and a razorblade shivering in his heads, and given Waylon's state last night it's no wonder he's already starting towards the door, listening with great intent for anything that indicates the same fate.

When he gets closer, he hears Waylon first: his laugh. And then Waylon's wife, distinctly not laughing. No, she's crying out in desperate pleasure, and the suggestion startles Miles so much that he draws back, the cigarette nearly falling out of his open mouth.

So that's how it is.

Miles feels the jealousy in him rise in waves. It reminds of how long it has been since –since last he had a relationship like that. But there's something else, too. There's resentment: that Waylon unloads all of his grief on Miles, but can't even meet his eyes. Lisa can't know that Waylon wants to kill himself, but she gets to fuck him.

So, what is he to Waylon? Extra therapy? Another bandaid to slap on, hoping for the best?

It doesn't matter. What does Miles care? It's not he's the one Waylon is legally bound to. And it doesn't matter that he's all Miles has left –that he killed for the man, became something godlike and awful and was torn from it, nearly in death. Even if Waylon knew that, and believed that, would it even make any difference? Miles is just his reflection or his dramatic foil. He'll die off by the end of the play.

Dispassionately, he finishes his cigarette and stops there for the morning, disliking the bitter chill of the outside air. He orders a breakfast and a newspaper, and turns on the radio in the kitchen, desperately needing something to distract his sense of hearing from the faint noises of intimacy down the hall.

Miles doesn't care about what the presenters are saying, or the songs that they play, so long as it continues. It becomes secondary as he zones out, preventing from thinking any more about any of them. For a second, he just lets his mind wander, thinking about where he'll go when this drama is done with. If he lives to see the valley below, and he'd very much like to, Miles imagines his days out West, in a large, bright house where there are lakes to swim in and bright porch lights so even when he wanders outside he never need be in darkness.

Breakfast is what wakes him from the daydream. He gets it at the door, and sits, grateful to have something to do. Miles likes being occupied, even if it is by something boring or necessary. He thinks it's alot like debris remaining in orbit around the planet. No matter how broken it is, or small or worthless, so long as it keeps going, it can resist gravity.

But the moment it slows is the moment it comes crashing to earth.

It falls apart for him when he wonders why. Miles thinks about writing that little anecdote down, about the satellite, but it's just like the ark scenario. What use is a metaphor on it's own, without context or purpose? It's useless, just like the act of writing it down and coming up with it. It's no use at all.

His nihilism is interrupted by a few vague thumps from the bathroom. And then, worse –he can make out some very distinct words.

"Y-yeah –like that-..."

Oh, Jesus Christ. Miles doesn't even bother to discern to whom the voice belongs. It makes his face hot and red with something not dissimilar to shame, but more difficult than jealousy. He hopes that if he just focuses on reading the headline he can drown out the noise, but it doesn't cease there, and it only makes him feel worse.

"Ah –god, Leese..!"

It doesn't take much imagination to know which voice that is. Mile rises noisily, having suddenly lost his interest in current affairs and breakfast. His ears feel as if they are steaming, and he needs to forget all about last night and this morning. He needs to get out of this awful situation.

Hastily, he crosses the room and picks up his cigarettes, and then his coat at the door, giving the place one last look over before swallowing, tersely, and making sure to slam the door shut hard enough to shake the wall.

That's what makes Waylon raise his head in a sudden alarm. "Leese-?"

His ministrations pause, for the moment, both of them as breathless as the other, grasped tight like some terrible conspiracy under the jet of water. Squinting in the steam, he adjusts so that they're facing. "You don't think that was one of the boys-"

Lisa breathes softly against him. Her body radiates a warm and soft heat –the feel of it soft and lovely and just as he remembers. But Lisa doesn't share his urgency. She moves up against him trying to restore their previous movements. "They're fast asleep, Way." He makes no move to continue, and Lisa practically whimpers against him. "Come on, babe..."

Nothing in the world could convince him against it.

And at any rate, he lacks the capacity to disagree, already flushed and shaking, pressed against Lisa so that he can feel all of her warmth and her softness. He has missed all of her, but this, especially. After everything that has transpired in the last few months, and what he has put her through in the past few days alone, it's the only thing he has left that is unchanged between them, and the only way to make her feel good.

Waylon is gentle with her. He starts slow, resisting his base urges, setting a pace more for her than for him. They've always had a very good sexual chemistry, even if Waylon isn't sure why. He thinks it's just by token of their time together, to get to know eachother. It's the reason he knows what every little sound means –he knows she wants it firmer, and quicker and deeper and he knows that when her grip gets tighter and her noises more nonsensical that she wants him to keep going.

And when she cries out, softly, biting down on his shoulder so as not to disturb the boys, her body tensing up into complete rigidity, he knows that there's not a thing in the world Lisa wants for a couple of minutes.

She slackens against him, and Waylon nearly falls right over. It's not that Lisa is heavy –far from it, but he and barely hold himself up without leaning hard on one side.

For a while, she remains against him, her breathing erratic and frayed, her grip around his shoulders loosening until she can lean back against the tile, her face all flushed and her eyes heavily-lidded. He makes a firm point of looking her in the eyes for as long as he can before his resolve, once hard as metal, becomes soft as nostalgia and he looks over all of her.

She looks every bit like he remembers: soft and lovely, and it makes Waylon wonder if she remembers him in such a romantic way. He feels as if he has looked nothing like himself for centuries.

Eventually, she finds the capacity to stands, and wanders under the jet of water, having gone cold in the minutes she was away from the water. Waylon never knows what to do with himself beyond simply watching, but tries to make himself useful, coming around behind her, his arms sidling up to her hips.

"Told you." She says, with a richness to her tone. "They're out cold."

Waylon doesn't say anything. He puts his lips to her neck in the hopes it will say more for him. His arms come around to her front and stroke down her sides very gently, as if he is somehow shy of the woman he married. Lisa recognises his touch, though. She invites it. His hands come to settle on her sides, and his head on her shoulder.

"Have some breakfast." Lisa says to him, one hand coming up to settle in his wet hair. It takes a moment to register the lack of inclination in her tone; it's not a question. "You barely ate anything yesterday."

"I ate." It's one of the first things he says all morning –this strange little whisper. It's unlike Waylon to be defensive about anything. Even more so against Lisa, for whom no argument is unwinnable. Shyly, almost embarrassed, his eyes drop to the water going soundlessly down the drain. "I ate something."

Lisa never takes confrontation with him seriously. She just laughs. "Alright, stringbean." She says, "But I'm starved, and the boys will be, too." They remain under the jet a little longer. She leans back against him a few times and her eyes slip shut. "I could just stay here forever. I-..." Her eyes open, bright with a smile. "I missed this so much."

Waylon has loved Lisa for seven years: he has called her his wife for four, and even now he feels some kind of surprise when she says things like that. He has this theory –the 'third shoe' suggestion that somewhere, somehow, regardless of Lisa's own intention, the eponymous third shoe is always waiting to drop and one day she will wake up next to him and realise she is far too good.

It's an insecurity that has never really left him, even after all this time, but he tries his hardest to forget it, just this once. Breathing in, softly, he murmurs to her. "I wish –that you could stay."

Lisa leans up to kiss him. "It's only for a little longer. Just until you start feeling a little better."

Waylon swallows his instinct to fight at that. He isn't sick. He doesn't feel sick. But he has no right to say that to Lisa after what has happened to him. After scrambling under the bed from a nightmare like a child, and having some kind of awful fit in the middle of a busy street from the sound of a powertool. Waylon must be sick –that, or he's insane.

Instead, he tells himself to agree with her. Because it's the nicest explanation of his behaviour.

"Yeah." He says, softly. "I just don't want to miss anything with you."

The water against his shoulder turns starkly cold, then, and he lurches forward to escape the jet. Lisa laughs at him, but assists in turning the shower off, until they're both standing mere inches apart, staring at eachother.

"We should probably dry off." She says. "And get back into bed."

Waylon isn't about to argue with that. He leaves the shower first, bringing over the towels, and then dries off into his underwear, putting on one of the hotel bathrobes. Lisa steps out a moment after him, turning her back to dry herself off, and step into her own underwear. Waylon can't look away from her, and it's making Lisa shy.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" She says, quietly, only just looking over her shoulder. In an attempt to comfort her, he walks up until he can feel the warmth of her back against his chest, and wraps his arms around her, his palms flat against her stomach.

Into her hair, he whispers, "You're so beautiful, Leese."

She laughs, and her hands warm his. "Not for much longer."

It confuses him. Frowning, staring ahead, Waylon murmurs, "You're _always_ beautiful, Leese."

A strike of guilt electrifies him the moment he finishes saying it. He must love her, so incredibly hard and true. So why can't he control himself? Why can't he be better for her? If only he could subscribe to Miles' philosophy; that they are survivors, and that however strange or scary their reactions are to everyday things, they're only doing it to get by.

His face heats at the thought. He doesn't want to think about Miles. His thoughts lack clarity and he goes around in circles whenever the man is on his mind. A carousel of loathing and sympathy and respect and something else: not unlike the burn in his face when Lisa stares at him in a daydream.

He thinks about something else when he limps towards the bedroom, with Lisa's assistance, quiet with opening the door. As she'd told him, both boys are still out cold, clinging onto eachother tightly in the clutches of sleep. The boys have grown so much and Waylon has never been proud of much but he's so proud of them.

For a second, Waylon remains standing in the door, looking at the two of them.

"I should go take my medication." He says, suddenly stricken.

Lisa lets him go without a word.

-

When god closes a door, he opens a window.

Miles returns after breakfast and passes Lisa hauling luggage out into the hall. She's dressed for the snow outside, wrapped up in a large coat and scarf, her dark face peeking out over it. For some reason, despite Miles wanting to avoid a conversation and ignore her, she greets him warmly.

"Hey." She says, dropping the suitcase hard onto the lush carpet. "Miles, right?"

He doesn't trust himself to speak. There's a distinct possibility that something awful will slip out: something about Waylon and his lips and his desire to die. So, all he can do is nod, hitching his thumbs into his belt loops.

Lisa doesn't take the silence personally. "You don't have to put up with us much longer. We'll be gone in about half hour." She turns to go back inside and haul another suitcase and Miles slips past her, seeing other bags ready to go, and the two small children being dressed in their overcoats. He feels like an intruder, disrupting the domesticity and peace of some household, despite the fact that this is his home, now, and they are the intruders.

Waylon is knelt in front of his smallest child, his eyes shining dangerously as if he's about to cry. With both hands, he's buttoning up the boy's coat.

"You be good for your mom now, okay?" He says, his voice trembling violently. "Both of you. Don't –don't stay up late –a-and eat your dinner-...alright?"

The smaller one looks up at him with very wide eyes, the older with tear-drawn lines drying on his cheeks. Waylon is no better off, but finds the control to keep it together, gathering them up for a hug. It's very hard to watch, and Miles has no rights to, but he cannot look away from it.

Very slowly, drawing himself up, Waylon limps hard as he leads his children to the door, where Lisa is standing with the last suitcase. She's keeping it together a whole lot better than Waylon, looking him in the eyes without a hint of tears. Miles supposes, to himself, that if she's been alone with two kids for a while, it has probably strengthened her resolve quite a bit. This is the first Waylon has seen of his old life. It's no wonder the man is falling apart.

In a scratchy whisper, Waylon falls against her. "Leese-"

Her arms pull him closer. "It's okay. I'll call you when we land. We'll come down to see you again." They remain there for a few moments, with Waylon very still against his wife, until she pulls back to gaze into his face, and there's so much adoration and fucking love that Miles can feel his skin prickle like he's bathing in thistles.

"D-don't go-..._please_..."

Lisa's hands fix softly on his shoulders. "Hey," She says, quietly "Hey, we're not done seeing eachother, okay?" Wrecked with misery, Waylon can barely nod. Almost imperceptibly, he does, and she smiles at him once more before her eyes become sad. "I'll call you tonight, okay? And I love you."

Waylon murmurs it back to her at a fraction of the volume. He stands, helplessly, when he watches her co-ordinate, before stepping out into the hall. "Say goodbye to your dad, okay?"

That seems to be the most difficult part. Waylon can barely move himself, so the two children take a leg each instead, and murmur their own goodbyes. It doesn't take ten seconds, even, and then they're going, like sudden lightning, as quickly as they came. Lisa is standing out in the hall with their bags, her hand out for Waylon to take.

"We'll see you soon, I promise. I'll call you, and we can –we can talk." As the goodbye becomes more definite, something like fear seems to give her words a breathless urgency. "I love you, Waylon."

As if having accepted his fate, Waylon nods. "I love you too, Leese."

And then she's gone from him.

That's all there is. It must feel like an eternity to Waylon, but to Miles, watching, it is an insignificant two or three minutes that leaves the man standing by the door, his head bowed slightly, his body still and unfeeling. Nobody wants to be breathing in the few moments Waylon is still, but he does move, eventually, like the last dance before an execution.

The atmosphere is terrible. There's not a thing that Miles can do or say to make things better, even if he wanted to do. He knows nothing of sacrifice. No, that's Waylon's area of expertise: sacrificing his freedom and happiness and sanity and even family to bring justice. He made those choices. Miles only knows about loss –about the choices made for him.

He sighs, quietly, and watches Waylon disappear into his room. Miles is smarter than to pursue him right away, knowing that distance, for the moment, is what Waylon needs.

So, for a little while, Miles settle down on the couch to read his emails. The television plays in the background. It's an old habit of his. Hearing other voices in his old place used to make him feel better about living alone, and he likes cooking shows, so it remains on while he types. He sends out a few emails to old contacts, and thinks about calling somebody –just to have somebody to talk to.

His hand is on the hotel receiver when he pauses, remembering what happened to his own mobile, and how the wall is still dented from his outburst. Striving to make a rational decision, he picks up the phone, and dials. -

"Hello?"

-

"Yeah?"

Waylon pretends not to be startled by the knock at the door. For a very brief second he raises his head, thinking that it's Lisa, but when he remembers her departure, all of his enthusiasm rots, and falls away. He remains sitting on the made hotel bed in the moderate darkness, making no move to answer the door.

After a while, Miles half-enters with an uncharacteristic gentleness, his face white against the slashes of snowy moonlight that hiss through the window.

Waylon's eyes go to the floor and he swallows. "I wasn't going to-..." He shakes his head. "You don't have to check up on me."

Nothing is said in response to that. Miles doesn't give a word of guidance either way, which is something they're both glad for. In fact, all he does for a few seconds is stand there, considering his words, before he steps inside fully, pulling a dark bottle inside with him.

He asks nothing of Waylon. He is neither complimentary or critical, and it gives Waylon pause when all Miles does is raise the bottle and an eyebrow, all at once, softly saying, "You wanna drink, Park?"

And even though Waylon has a million excuses for refusing –he feels terrible, and he's on medication and he's the worst kind of drunk (an honest one), when he tries to find the right words to refuse the offer, what comes out is a very slight nod.

"Okay." He says. "Alright."

Miles leads, naturally. They sit at the table in the kitchen, close by proximity but further away than ever. It's obvious in the way Waylon never quite says anything, and how Miles plays with the stumps of his fingers as he does when he's nervous. Two glasses sit between them. Nobody argues with whiskey.

What is there to be said? Waylon is too preoccupied thinking about Lisa, all on her own, having to deal with the airport and passport control and the flight and keeping the boys warm and fed. And all the while it continues to snow. The thoughts are so consuming that he barely notices Miles until he looks up. The man is staring down at his hands, absently.

"Do you ever forget that they're gone?" Waylon isn't sure if the question is too personal. He doesn't want to make Miles more uncomfortable than the silence between them.

It doesn't seem to bother Miles. He shrugs. "Sometimes. Like, when I try to use a pen or something." With a gentle sigh, he looks up. "I think I'm getting used to it." When Waylon doesn't do anything, Miles gestures to his glass."Drink, Park. You don't have to make conversation."

"I just-..." Waylon breathes. "I wanted to say I was sorry. For –for last night." His face is all red with shame, like if he admits some kind of defeat, it makes him worthless and embarrassing. "I shouldn't have said –any of that to you. It just didn't want to tell Lisa, and have her think-..."

If Waylon didn't remind him so much of himself, Miles might be inclined towards sympathy. But he sees the vices they both share, this edge of cowardice and want for approval that will ultimately will them before it could ever reward them.

"Have her think what?" Miles looks at him, confused. But when Waylon doesn't answer right away, he presses. "What would she think, Park? Finish the sentence."

It makes Waylon squirm. He shrugs a shoulder, defiantly, and whispers the words like a sin. "I didn't want her to think I changed. We don't –it doesn't matter now, anyway. She already knows." At that, Waylon laughs, despite himself, and takes a hard swig from his glass. It seems like some awful secret the way he says it, but to Miles it's old news. Waylon can no more pretend he's the same than Miles can pretend he has ten working fingers.

He understands the fight against it, though. The truth is like some terrible joke that always has a way of coming to fruition.

"You want to talk about something else?" Making some stab at pleasant conversation, Miles strives for a breezy, polite tone. It is difficult to salvage from what's left of him, but he finds it, eventually.

Waylon looks up again, and shrugs. "I-..." He exhales, and seems to consider what he's saying with brief intensity. "I never really have anything to say."

They might be reflections in the same pane of glass, but there are differences on either side that mar the mirror's perfection. Miles always has something to say –to speak because he can, because he thinks any aspect of living would spite everything that tried to kill him in that place. He speaks to convince himself they haven't won. Waylon is quiet, because he fears they have.

"What about the writing thing?" It comes to him suddenly and Miles nods as he takes most of his own glass, relishing the burn on his lips. "How's that going?"

Waylon makes another non-committal gesture. "I don't know." And then, as if pained, he continues talking. "Look, I appreciate this gesture –believe me, I do," He searches Miles' face desperately. "But I don't know what you want from me, Miles."

For a second, all Miles can see is blue. Lips, veins, skies, oceans. Just like the colour of Waylon's soul. But he's not about to say that.

Brusquely, Miles shrugs and finishes off his drink, trying to think of something witty to say. The thing is, he can't. And all he has left is the truth: that Waylon reminds him of somebody else. Somebody that made him feel safe and cherished and powerful and happy, and now Miles is clinging desperately to that happiness knowing that Waylon is somebody different who has no time for him at all.

Waylon doesn't hold it against him. Instead he shakes his head, and pours himself another glass. "Ignore me. I'll just spoil the gesture if I keep talking."

Both of their glasses are empty, and so Miles takes the time to fill them both up. He looks up at Waylon, who nods, and they both go back to drinking in silence. For a while, Miles thought he was an alcoholic. It was the first time he'd been single in two years, and he hated everything he wrote at the time, so he drank. Not too much –enough until he got that click in his head that made everything go all peaceful. Tonight, he's looking for the same thing, to ensure dreamlessness.

When he looks back up, Waylon is still sat there, looking utterly stricken. As if he has no idea what to do or say, so Miles leads with the conversation again.

"It must have been nice to see your wife again."

Inertly, Waylon's head lifts but his eyes remain fixed on the table, as if he's somewhere else entirely. "I didn't want her to see me like this." He says, very slowly. "But I missed her, so she came."

Miles lets out a nervous laugh. "Isn't that good?"

Once more, Waylon shrugs. "I don't know." He murmurs, still entranced by something. "I don't think I was ready to see her. And I'm not for another baby."

At that, Miles pauses. "Wait –so your wife is-"

Waylon nods, and then drops his head onto his arms, flat against the table, groaning out helplessly. "God, what am I going to _do_?" He stays there for a while, and Miles lets him be, unable to find words to remedy the situation. In a way, he's glad that he's by himself, because watching Waylon interact with his family makes it all seem like nothing but trouble.

After a few more minutes, Waylon still hasn't moved, and Miles realises that it might be wise for him to give Waylon something else to think about. Give him enough to drink that he might get the click in his head, too, and start to feel all peaceful and sleepy.

Reaching out a hand, he shakes Waylon's shoulder gently. "You're gonna worry yourself to an aneurism, Park. Have another drink. Let's play cards or something."

It surprises Miles for the second time that evening. They move from the kitchen to the couch, around the coffee table, taking the spirits with them. The television plays softly in the background as they make small conversation. Waylon's no cardsharp –his eldest only being four, it's been a while since he's played something other than 'go fish', so that's what they play.

It is slow, at first, but Miles is used to breaking people into giving him a story, and so he grows used to Waylon's company fast. He's also the better card player –and takes two tricks before Waylon gets his first, ensuring that drinking is both a punishment and reward in the context.

It goes on for a little while. Waylon is a small guy in terms of weight, and he never eats a thing, so by the time Miles has his third trick, Waylon is softer, and more talkative, and for the first time in perhaps ever, he begins to laugh.

He has so many questions he wants to ask Waylon –if he knows what Miles did for him, if he would have kissed him yesterday under different circumstances, if he still wants to kill himself. On his next turn, he fishes for a two, which he gets, and then swallows.

"Waylon," He says, quietly. "D'you still want to die?"

The other man considers it for a second. He looks down at his cards as if the answer is there and then shakes his head. "Go fish." He says.

Miles takes a card from the pile.

"My turn." Waylon says. He regards Miles different to before, as if the question had kicked to life something else within him –something more alive. "Why do you care about my wellbeing?"

Swallowing, Miles hands him a card –any card. The game no longer matters, even if he's winning on tricks. "I don't want them to win." He says, uncertainly. "I don't want to be the last man standing, y'know?"

Waylon nods. He deposits the card in his hand and then looks up at Miles again. "Why don't you go to any of your therapy sessions?"

"Because I'm not fucking crazy."

"Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Go fish." Miles leans back on his hands and sniffs. "Did you believe me, when I told you –about what I remembered? About saving you?"

That seems to be the hardest ne for Waylon to answer. Everything in him slows as he selects a card from his hand, slowly, and gives it over to Miles with a sympathetic tenderness. "No."

"So you think I'm crazy?"

"No, Miles."

"Then why don't you believe me?" Miles' voice grows in anger at that, but not just fury –frustration. He's isolated by the truth, and not even the one he saved –the one he protected despite every instinct to crush and contain and destroy—takes him at his word.

Waylon's voice is as sorry as ever. "It's not-...it's not possible." And then, sighing, he laughs. "Well, I suppose after what we've seen, it's best not to hold my breath about possible. Go fish, Miles." Miles does what he's told. He finds a card, and without looking at it, deposits it in his head. He thinks, then, that their little game will be over, because he's got nothing left to say to Waylon.

But it's not his turn.

Waylon is the one with all the power now, and his intent is unclear but formidable when he adjusts the cards in his hand and looks at the other man with a curious glance. "Were you going to kiss me, last night?" And then, getting no answer right away. "No, forget that."

Still in a voice barely above a whisper, Waylon looks right at him and says, "Why'd you kiss me?"

Miles is blindsided. His voice is a stutter –an engine unable to start and take him away from this mess. All he can do is look up, frozen, and stutter, "What?"

Against his nature, Waylon remains steadfast. "Why'd you kiss me?"

Miles feels his face heat up with shame before he can help it. All of a sudden he feels far too lucid and sober. He wants to hear the click. He yearns for unconsciousness. He shakes his head, embarrassed. "Go fish, Park, this isn't fucking funny."

"Miles-"

In a panic, Miles stands, and turns on the other man, his voice erupting at a shout when he only means it to be level. But his anger is just insecurity. He can't put a single reason on anything he does anymore, and he desperately wants this to be the one controversy let to lie.

"You think this is a_ game_?" He barks out, in a clipped shout. "Why'd you _let me_ kiss you, Park? You think I was just messing with you because I'm lonely? Or bored?"

Waylon doesn't say anything. It leaves Miles no other choice. He throws down his cards in a huff and tosses some words over his shoulder, leaving them with Waylon all alone in the sitting area.

He says, "Go fucking fish, you dick. I _wanted_ to."

And for a while, Waylon just remains there, in a wash of playing cards. He doesn't understand Miles' words until he crawls away, up into the sheets that smell like Lisa, seeing her photo smile at him from the night stand. Miles said he wanted to –he kissed him because he wanted to. And Miles just does whatever he wants, doesn't he?

It's too late to turn back down. Things have started to unravel. They have been set in motion, and now there's no point Waylon can go back to and change things.

All he can do, it seems, is go _fish_.


	12. Chapter 12

Everything is dark when Miles wakes.

He comes to crying out, and when he realises that he's conscious his voice trails off into desperate gasps for breath. Under the ocean of sheets, he's trembling so horribly that the covers seem to beat against him like waves, and Miles feels as if he is drowning, helplessly, awash with darkness.

His hands shake as he feels for the switch to the lamp on his nightstand, cringing away from the soft, milky light that bathes the room in a soft yellow. He stares at the wall to his side, catching his breath, staring at the crooked silhouette on the wall and the long, pencil-esque shadow of eight fingers, left intact.

He had dreamt Trager had come for the rest.

When he feels brave enough, he looks down at his own hands, clasping them together, uncurling and curling them as if to make certain they exist. That he exists.

Sometimes he dreams of that place and he wakes feeling so small –barely an inch high, and the world and it's violent colours and enormous noises scares him. But other times –other times his dreams are of ascension –of being godlike and staring into the colour of Waylon Park's soul and seeing oceans where fear should have been.

Those times, he wakes feeling infinite –a universe long and wide and tall, almighty and all powerful and these times, when he wakes the disappointment of the world as it is –so irrelevant and tiny, a microcosm on the head of a pin—it crushes him like a bug.

Tonight, Miles feels small. He feels small and afraid and even after minutes of sitting there, assuring himself that he watched Trager die, and he still has what's left of his hands and everything is okay now, it does no good. He feels so awful, and so alone. God, some nights it gets so bad that he nearly dials for his hometown, just to hear a voice he knows.

Miles knows he needs to calm himself down, and so for a few minutes, he just tries to settle his breathing, slumped into a sitting position against the headboard of the bed, his hands limp against his stomach, his eyes shut. He lets the deep breaths surge through all of him. He imagines he is taking air in from his feet. And then, after a few minutes, when his trembling has reduces to mere shakes, he finds the footing to stand in the half-illuminated room.

The whiskey didn't keep his sleep dreamless. Miles reverts to his other vice and takes the near-empty carton of cigarettes off of his nightstand along with the lighter. He drapes the sheets over his shoulders and shuffles, quietly, into the living room.

The lights are out but the television is still on. Some re-run of a celebrity chef preparing food illuminates a solitary hand. At first, it makes Miles jump, but as he walks around, he realises that it's just Waylon. He remains, sleeping soundlessly on the couch, one of his arms dangling limply towards the light of the television. He looks so serene and the scene is so intimate that Miles feels as if he is seeing something terribly personal.

But the thought doesn't make him look away.

Miles comes around instead, inspecting what's left of the places for traces of activity. The playing cards are still scattered all over the floor from their 'game', which means Waylon has made no attempt to clean up or put the issue to bed.

What is there to talk about? Miles had been delirious with fever, and Waylon had this beautiful, blue soul and these soft, calming hands and a quiet voice. Of course he wanted to kiss Waylon. That's the end of it.

Unless, of course, Miles is asked how he feels now, with a clearer head, and of reasonably sound body and mind. That's a whole other conversation, and right now, Miles isn't ready to have it.

He opts, instead, to have another cigarette, already feeling better for consciousness. His legs ache to sit by the only other couch is occupied with a half-finished dinner and a large pile of clothes. Miles doesn't want to disturb them, but doesn't want to sit in the kitchen, either, where it is cold and dark. So, trying to make the choice as rational as possible to himself, he lifts Waylon's head slightly and sits down, so that the man is sleeping in his lap while he smokes.

Miles wants to sit there forever, with Waylon warm on him, mumbling softly in his sleep, the cigarette shooting peace straight into his blood and making his breathing even once more. All of the terror burns up and leaves him like the column of smoke above him. With his left hand, he holds the cigarette, and with his right he lets his hand drop, curled against the base of Waylon's skull.

If he closes his eyes, and pretends, it's like he's back home again, and younger and happier and he hasn't seen anything of suffering yet. He's back at home and Tommy still loves him and it's the best his life is ever going to get.

If he focuses hard, he can pretend he's not alone and it isn't Waylon sleeping in his lap –and even if it is, he can pretend that Waylon isn't married, or straight or uninterested. All dreaming has to end, but not just yet –Miles holds out for a while, trying to remember, trying to be happy, because he's so tired of loneliness and unhappiness.

He keeps his eyes closed for so long that soon the cigarette is burning the skin of his fingers and it makes him flinch nine whole yards. Thankfully, he doesn't drop it in Waylon's hair, but his flinching does cause the man to stir, letting out a soft grumble and curling in on himself more.

Miles murmurs, "Sorry," as if it makes any difference at all. At this point, it feels meaningless to apologise.

Even when Miles had sworn to himself, in that place, that whatever god there was would have to beg for his forgiveness, doesn't mind the silence. An apology wouldn't make a difference to him now.

He feels himself grow very tired after the cigarette dies. He flicks the butt of it away, only then noticing how empty the bottle on the table is.

He heard Waylon crawl into bed, so he didn't just drink and pass out here. He must have gotten up –or woke from some dream or something. Miles doesn't know, or care –he isn't about to ask. All he wants to do is sleep, but he doesn't want to risk waking Waylon by moving him, and then have to explain why he chose to sit there and stroke his hair.

When Miles does tense up his thighs, going to stand in the tiniest increment, Waylon shifts again, so he is, essentially, pinned to the couch with nowhere to go.

Not that Miles minds it. He keeps his hand in Waylon's hair as the man on television continues to cook, and it's the last thing he consciously remembers before slipping into further darkness, and then finally, sleep.

-

Waylon doesn't dream.

It doesn't matter –he wakes just as disorientated as if he'd have dreamed.

First, he comes to lying on his side, his head aching indistinctly. The heat of something else besides him is enjoyable, and for a second he gropes around to find a warm laptop charger in the small of his back, or simply Lisa, and is very alarmed to find his hand fix on a thick, decidedly masculine arm that definitely isn't Lisa's. Gaping, he turns his head, finding himself on the couch, which is odd enough as it is.

But what gets him is that Miles is curled over him, still very much sleeping.

Waylon doesn't remember Miles returning after their card game started to go south. What was said put the man in such an awful mood that Waylon was glad to be alone to ride out the worst of it, but it seems the worst has come and gone and now Miles is asleep. His face is usually so hard and his expression so touch. It surprises Waylon that he can look so impartial. So at peace with the universe, for once.

It is difficult to untangle himself from the couch, but he does without cause for alarm. Despite being manoeuvred a few times, Miles doesn't stir. If he did, Waylon wouldn't know what to do. The solace is his only blessing, though.

On the coffee table, between scattered playing cards and empty glasses, he finds his cell phone. It was on his nightstand when he crawled into his sheets –but when he couldn't sleep and felt annoyingly lucid and crawled back out for another drink, he must have taken it with him.

A sudden shot of panic injects itself into him. Waylon doesn't trust himself to hold anything down. And he has a history of being more than a little loquacious on the phone.

His face starts to burn as he thinks of Lisa. Hasn't she seen enough? What more could he show her or tell her to make things more confusing between them? Maybe if it were just Waylon's difficulties –or just Lisa's pregnancy –or just the distance and the boys. Maybe if the variables were isolated, he'd feel a little less overwhelmed.

But there's nothing Waylon can do. Things have been set in motion. And as much as he wants to stop this train, he never will.

Cautiously, he reads his unlock screen to find missed calls from Lisa. Part f him is panicking wildly. He's done or said something awful –hasn't he? The third shoe has finally dropped because Waylon has forced it to and Lisa will finally see him for what he is. But a larger part of Waylon stills the panic –he can control himself. Enough to realise, at least, that Lisa is steadfast and stalwart. She doesn't give up so easily.

She's probably just checking in after getting home safe.

Waylon doesn't call her back right away though. He's scared to. As if to confirm his worst fears, he scrolls to his logs and reads them.

Last night. Last night at an hour so ungodly, he doesn't recall it, he called her.

The cloudiness of his head says it all. Is that what happened –did he call her, sad and drunk and pathetic? Did Lisa have to hear him blubber down the line until he passed out from fatigue?

It settles every question and inclination he has. Waylon has to call her. To apologise. To somehow confirm that despite what he is and what he has turned into, she can still love him. That she can remember him as he was, and not as he is. His hands shake as he rings for her mobile, a thousand miles away. Where home was.

He hears himself breath through the dialtone as it rings. The silence and anticipation are wearing his resolve down. After a few seconds, he realises he's holding his breath, and it's because he's scared of what his own wife will tell him and he thought he was braver than that –Jeremy called him brave, and maybe it's synonymous with foolish but right now it doesn't matter to him. The second the line clicks his hoarse whisper rings out.

"Leese?"

All he hears is rustling. He suspects he has woken her, but the softness of her voice is in no way compromised. "Waylon, babe?" She says, quietly. "It's really early in the morning."

Waylon doesn't know the time difference between New York and Leadville. He doesn't want to learn, either. It feels like calling this place home is a sign of defeat. He persist with the call, though, knowing that if he called her, he will have said something terrible.

"I know." He says to her, as calmly as I can. "I'm sorry."

Lisa's laugh is soft and warm. "You don't have to be sorry." She says to him. "If you need to call me, I'm always going to answer." Her voice is as soft as steam on the window panes and precious as the lost of the melting snow. What has he to fear from her?

Comforted, but still a little cautious, Waylon frowns. "Thank-you." He says, surprised by the gesture. Sometimes he forgets that she loves him –he forgets that he's Waylon Park alot, and he has a life and a past. Maybe that's why he's so hesitant to return the tender gesture. He doesn't trust himself to love her.

Still, that is not his immediate concern. He has to prioritise his anxieties, and at the top of the pile is the phonecall he doesn't remember making late last night.

"Leese, last night-..." He exhales, very shakily. He never knows what to say. "I think I called you –I don't remember. And –and I might have said something-..."

"Yeah," Her voice comes out in a more difficult tone, as if she is reluctant to speak. "You must have been pretty –pretty drunk, babe. You weren't making much sense. You just kept talking about –I don't even know."

Lisa makes it sound almost comical, but every single word Waylon might have said is too much of a risk. Did he tell her about the razorblade in the bathroom? About Miles in any capacity?

Waylon hurries to apologise again. "I'm sorry." He says, quickly. "I shouldn't have done that." His mouth is very dry when he swallows. "I didn't upset you, did I?"

Lisa's pause is all he needs to know.

After a short silence, she sighs, and says, "Not intentionally."

"Oh, god." Waylon swallows, feeling suddenly very cold. "What did I say? Leese, what did I say-"

She sighs. "You –you were just drunk. And tired. And you just telling me that you weren't crazy. You kept asking me not to leave you." Lisa is usually so in control and above it all, so when he tone begins to slip and she begins to sound horrifyingly trite and emotional, Waylon feels so underprepared. "Why –why would you ask me that, way..? I love you. I would never-..."

Hating himself for every breath, Waylon says, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Lisa's voices comes to him, a little more forgiving. "I'm sorry that I couldn't stay for longer-...we're all sorry for something."

She's not wrong. She's not wrong at all so Waylon nods despite the fact that she can't see. After all the year they've known eachother, he likes to think that somehow, she knows what he means. For a second, there is silence between them. He can't stand to think there is anything between them left unsaid, but has no concept of how to voice his fears without sounding worthless, and embarrassing. Not that it even matters –Waylon hears his mouth make the words before he can even help it.

"Have I changed?" Is what he asks. "Do you still –do you still see me?"

This time, her reply comes quicker, as if to still his nerves. "Clear as crystal, Way."

He believes her. He does. Lisa does love him, and she does see him. All that he asks is that remember him as he was.

Not as he is.

-

"He's no longer a resident."

"What?"

The snowstorms are getting worse. Miles' only defence from the flurry outside is the glass of the phonebooth. The hand holding the receiver is blue and numb from the cold. The other, jammed deep into his coat pocket, is hot from being tensed and relaxed routinely.

He didn't want to do this to himself, and yet here he is, in the middle of the street, calling for Tommy's old landline when he promised himself he never would.

Miles knows he's desperate. It should be enough to hear simple rejection, but it isn't. He presses.

"When did he move out?"

The voice on the other line is bored. Maybe tired. Maybe Miles woke him but the time difference and the man's feelings are negligible and irrelevant to the task at hand.

"Listen, buddy-"

The hand holding the receiver tightens. Miles feels himself tighten, and the faint static in the back of his brain grow louder. It takes all he has to work through it.

"Do you have a fucking date you can give me or not?"

The static is getting louder. God, the heat in his face is already tangible and barely anything has been said. It's not just about the guy on the other line –or about Waylon and his games and refusal to believe, and it's not just anger. He has to control himself. He needs to be able to get through a simple phonecall without severing ties and making some irreversible mistake.

"Look," The voice on the other line sighs. "The information you want is confidential. I can't just go handing out contact information like that. Unless there's anything else I can help you with-"

Miles hangs up first. He strikes the receiver down onto the hook hard enough that the plastic chips because he wants the satisfaction and he deserves it.

His is a mess. His head feels like it's alight –his face burns and his ears ring out _buddy-buddy-buddy _until he thinks he's finally gone mad.

It's a bad idea to go back to the hotel. It is –but he's got nobody else to call and nowhere else to go and at least there he can be alone and he can try to forget. Until he can wash away the static in the back of his mind, swarming with so much anger that he can barely move. It infects all of him, and he can feel every curse ever felt.

The walk back to the hotel sees no improvement. If anything, it grows louder until he's convinced that this is how he'll die –a blood clot straight to the brain from feeling overwhelmed by all of this emotion that he doesn't even remember feeling. It's like somebody is putting thoughts into his head –cramming him full and full of ones that don't belong to him and there isn't any more room. Miles thinks he's going to collapse by the time he reaches 103, finding a chair to sit in before he falls down.

His hands shake when he tries to light a cigarette. They shake so bad he burns himself with the lighter and he feels so utterly useless. There's not a thing he can do for himself and maybe it would be best for everybody if they euthanized him like a fucking dog instead of having him wake up to terrible sunlight every morning knowing he can change nothing.

He's seething by the time Waylon emerges, looking very pale. It would be best for both of them not to say a word, but Miles is afforded no blessing.

"Miles?" His voice is hardly an assault. It's harder than usual, but the tone isn't unpleasant. But over the roar of the static, Miles can barely hear it, and he presses his fingertips to his temples in some effort to master it. "I think that we should talk."

Waylon makes a move like he's going to sit down.  
_  
"Don't_." Miles grinds out. "Not right now, Park."

Waylon doesn't heed the warning. He picks the least opportune moment to be brave –and as much as Miles doesn't want to hurt him, or anybody, he fears he is powerless to stop some kind of discharge of the terrible energy making his had feel as heavy as a bowling ball.

Amazingly, Waylon remains standing before him, and even finds the audacity to ask, "Why? Is something going to change that will make this easier for you later on?"

Miles looks up furiously. He wants to want Waylon, but knows, already, it will do no good. "You really don't want to do this, Park."

Hesitantly, Waylon looks at him as if trying to assess the risk. But he doesn't look deep enough. His hands remain on the back of the chair across from Miles. He makes no move to sit or go, but sands his ground instead.

"No," Waylon says, decidedly. "I can't ignore what's happened –and we have to talk about it sometime."

"About what?" Miles seethes. He hates that they're skirting around nothing. He feels himself shouting even though there's no reason to be this angry at Waylon. "There's nothing to talk about!"

To his surprise, Waylon remains standing his ground, his quiet voice somehow resolute. "This isn't going to go away the louder you shout at me." It cuts right through the rising static and at any other time Miles would be practically proud of Waylon for standing up for himself instead of shrinking back for once, but right now all he can think to do is lash out. Especially when Waylon says, "I need an explanation for what you did-"

"I _gave_ you one, didn't I?!" He throws himself to standing. "Or wasn't that _good enough_ for you?"

"It would have been good enough had it made sense." Waylon counters. "Why did you want to? I –I deserve some explanation, at least."

"That _was_ your explanation!" He is standing at full height, practically screaming. "You can't keep asking me until you get the answer you want, Park! I was delirious –you can't hold me accountable for it."

"You're right." Waylon says, his voice now blown to something like speaking. "You're right –I can't hold you accountable for it. But you tried again –you tried to...—and I know you tried to talk me out of killing myself and it's not that I'm not grateful, Miles, but if you're doing it because you feel-"

The static is screaming inside of his skull. It's the word that breaks him –feel.

How can Waylon accuse him of indifference? Miles can feel everything –he can feel every soul he ever looked into and everything that every form of him ever felt, and he is so guilty and afraid and furious –the three at such extreme points that they are tearing his consciousness in three different directions.

"Don't fucking talk to me about _'feelings'_!" He advances on Waylon and swats the chair out of his grip, offering no defence against his assault. "If you had an ounce of fucking _sympathy_ you wouldn't put _your_ life in _my_ hands and give everything else to your fucking wife! How about –how about I deserve some explanation why you _cry to me_ and then pretend to her that you're not fucking _crazy_?!"

"Don't talk to me about Lisa."  
All Waylon can do is whisper again. His voice gets all thick and his face beet red and his soul might as well be white hot from the intense burn of it. Miles can see him growing in anger like some ocean ready to boil, and he wants to see it spill over, for once. He wants to infect Waylon with all his fury like some terrible chemical weapon and before he knows it they're inches apart and Waylon is below him.

Miles can't control himself. He says the worst things he can think of.

His voice drops to some terrible whisper like he's imparting an awful secret. "Don't you think she sees it, Park? You're a fucking _wreck_. You're a danger to your goddamn children and-"

"That's _enough_."

Waylon looks as white as the face of a supernova to Miles. His body is taught as a bowstring with something locked away –a truth that not even Waylon can stare in the face.

It is too late for Miles to stop himself. He feels dizzy with power –and he wants to see Waylon crushed like a small bug. He wants to see the watched pot finally boil and all of that humanity and turmoil burst out of the other man like blood.

"You think she's coming back?"

Waylon's resolve is weakening. Miles can see it break. He can see every fracture in Waylon's blue soul filled with heat and intensity and it will break apart with the smallest amount of pressure.

He can't stop himself –he laughs. "You really think-"

Like sudden lightning, Waylon punches him.

It's full of all of that repressed anxiety and paranoia and fear, and he hits hard enough that Miles staggers back, the force of it going right through him, and he feels every his pulse in the area of his impact. It feels as if half of his face is molten.

In practical disbelief, he holds himself against the counter and stares up at Waylon, nursing his hand, swallowing thickly.

Breathlessly, he looks up with such sorrow ruining his face. "Miles –god, I'm didn't mean-..."

Consciously, he sees Waylon, and recognises him. He even pities him –but there is something else, greater than his own consciousness, undermining every bit of sympathy he could feel. It doesn't have a name, but Miles knows exactly what it is taking a hold of him –he saw Billy do it, and now he feels all of Billy's fury and desperate desire for revenge.

And, like some terrible instinct, every fibre in his body thrills forward, and before he is conscious of it, his hands are bound around Waylon's throat with intent to kill.

Waylon doesn't stand a chance. He's pinned so easily, as if weightless, his arms trapped beneath Miles' bent legs, having no defence against the eight fingers pressing down mercilessly and starving him of all oxygen.

Miles barely feels him struggle. He tries to focus on Waylon's face –he tried to see it, but his vision keeping devolving into a mess of colours and abstract stimulations. All he can see is the white of Waylon's soul, being squeezed of life, and he can smell every bit of fear and humanity as this plethora of emotion radiate off of it.

At first, Waylon tries to fight him, his legs battering, these gasps and squeaks making it out of his mouth by mere inches, but something changes, and then his eyes go wide and he looks afraid –more so than Miles has ever witnessed any human in his life. His soul feels like it's curling in on itself as some last defence.

He can't stop himself. Waylon's protests are getting weaker and weaker and Miles can't stop himself. Somewhere, far off, he hears himself plead for consciousness –_don't hurt him –don't hurt him –please_...But it is ignored by the wail of the static.

He can see Waylon's soul nearly bursting. He can hear every thought and prayer and in the moments he is lucid he can see the man's purple face and blue lips and eyes bulging out of his skull. Miles can see his eight fingers –but worse than that, some kind of black some marring them.

The kind he saw once, briefly, tearing through Walker like a tornado tears through a small town –bringing down the power lines and leaving the outskirts bare. Before he watched Billy die –and it's the last thing he remembers before seeing Waylon's soul. Before saving it.

In a moment of lucidity, Miles battles himself for control. He watches Waylon's body fall slack and tears his hands away, falling back against the kitchen table, his face soaked with blood from his nose and ears and eyes.

The hiss of the static is smaller now. The colours fade away until they are invisible again and he's scared that he really has lost it.

Most of all, he is scared that he has lost Waylon.

Petrified, he crawls over very slowly, afraid to see Waylon awake, but scared to see him dead. His body is shaking with some violent exhaustion, as if tapping into whatever ungodly plane of consciousness that caused his violence has drained him of his will to live, but he forces himself forward until he is above Waylon.

"Park..?"

Dark, ugly lines on Waylon's neck tell of what was. Miles doesn't care that he's afraid anymore. He feels himself crying –the hot tears driving lines through the blood on his face, as he feels uselessly for signs of life.

Somehow, Waylon is breathing, these tiny, shallow breaths –small, but enough to signify his vitality.

Miles can't contain himself. He falls back and feels the crying become more violent. What is he? Is he –is he that thing, that killed hundreds of those soldiers and patients, hungry for sacrifice, unable to distinguish between guilt and innocence?

They couldn't contain it. They couldn't have dreamed of doing so and if they couldn't what hope does Miles have?

He can't control it. It's not possible. And he'll end up doing something awful –even worse than what he just did to Waylon, and then they will take him away forever. They'll take him back to a place just like Mount Massive and he will wish he died in his sleep years ago, rather than face this.

_Died –oh, god. He –he died there, didn't he?_ The memory comes to him hard and he can no longer sit himself up, overpowered entirely by the memory that hits him in a hard shock of lightning. He can see his own body, torn apart by bullets, wet with his own blood.

But if he died there, how can he be here? Did that thing pity him –rebuild him? Did it spit the bullets back out of him, but neglected to fix his fingers?

The blood is coming fast now. He can feel himself on the verge of unconsciousness, the haemorrhage shaking every part of him down until he can barely see. Blood is dirtying the clean laminate, his knees and shirt tacky with it, and with the last scraps of his strength he falls down besides Waylon, his bloody hand leaving evidence when he feels for a pulse once more, just to make sure.

"I'm_ sorry_." He sobs, weakly, as rest begins to claim him. _"I'm –I'm sorry-..."_


	13. Chapter 13

Waylon comes to in the dark—gasping out.

He thinks he is dead, at first. Some tremendous invisible weight on his throat keeps his breaths small and insubstantial, forcing him to wheeze loudly to get any air in at all. His instinct is to turn on his side, and he feels cold floor against his cheek as he curls in, a cough breaking free of him before he can help it –and suddenly, he feels himself hacking up blood.

As painful as it is, Waylon reaches out to swipe a fingertip in it. To assure himself it's real. The blood is thick and warm and worrying; but it means he is alive.

He forces himself onto his front, trying to push himself up. It's difficult –he feels like he's getting no blood to his arms. He feels like he's been hit by a freight train. But something stronger than determination wills him to sit –something bigger than guts and worse than fear. In the dark he can feel the heat of someone or some_thing_ else and remains as quiet as he can.

It's not Miles. It's not, he tells himself this clearly as he crawls away, slowly, afraid to stir something. Because Miles is a person and he's bitter and guarded but the thing in front of him is a machine –a monster, designed for destruction and oblivion, incapable of kindness or emotion. Uncontainable.

How does he know, though? What draws the line, and distinguishes between Miles, and that thing? _The Walrider_?

And Miles –no, that _thing_ -it was near to Lisa and his children and if it had gotten out of control there would have been nothing Waylon could have done. He is supposed to take them far away from that place, and all of it's ghosts and instead he leads them to the lion's den. Disgust turns his mouth to ash. Disgust at himself –at what he is, a coward.

At whatever it is before him.

Waylon knows he should feel afraid. But at what? He tries to use the kitchen table as some kind of leverage to stand and feels his shoe slip in something horribly wet, and when the fear jumps up to his throat he wonders if he is afraid for his own safety or for that of Miles. If there's any of the man left.

Swallowing, trying to steady his breathing, he fumbles on the table for where his phone should be, his hand palming blindly until he finds it, unlocking it and watching light spill from it. Not unlike the camcorder, and at the thought Waylon is practically afraid to turn the light towards the damp floor. He fears he will not like what he finds.

He can do this. He will do this. He owes that much to Miles, if he's still in there.

There's blood. Too much of it for Waylon to stomach –the floor is tacky with it, and Miles is covered and there are trace amounts on Waylon. The heel of his shoe is still damp. His sleeve and wrist are soaked in odd blotches as if bloody fingers were laid on him, and spots of no particular pattern stain his front.

Waylon doesn't know how much blood a person can afford to lose before dying, but this looks like more than enough.

He is drawn back, afraid, but when he looks for longer, he cannot see anything but Miles, and then an entirely different emotion is making his throat constrict in agony

In his mind, Waylon cannot marry the image of that thing with Miles. No, Miles exists separately, whole and complete. He is crass and abrasive but for some slanderous reason Waylon feels safe in his company. But for Miles he is alone in the world, the last alive after some terrible flood, tied together by some freakish atlantic cable. And whenever Waylon has been dragged down by the undertow, Miles has pulled him back.

Now the other end of the great chain is being pulled. And Waylon owes him this, at least.

He turns the light of the phone screen towards the body –fighting against the word. It's no corpse. It's Miles –every memory and emotion contained within the vessel of dark hair and bright eyes. Miles isn't moving, that much is certain, so what does Waylon have to fear?

Instinctively, he falls to a crouch, and moves forward very slowly, one hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing, the other holding the phone as his only defence. The light trembles and makes shadows on the wall dance, but Waylon tries to keep his focus. The hand over his mouth moves forward, shamefully slowly, and he presses very softly against the small of Miles' back.

He feels himself forced back violently. What looks like coal dust seems to cover Miles like a thick fog, but somehow alive, and Waylon can hear it humming like some kind of generator. It appears to sure forward at his touch, and all of a sudden Waylon's vision is obscured once more by abstract blotches in his eyes like those images they burned into his brain. He gasps out in shock, wriggling back, dropping his phone onto the bloody floor.

The black smoke doesn't dissipate, but makes no move to advance either, and it's then Waylon realises what Miles had been saying.

_"I killed him -for __you__–to save –to save-..."_

Aloud, for some reason, his mouth makes the name before he even thinks it. "Jeremy-..." He says, in a voice so pathetic it hurts him. "You –you _killed_ him..." Waylon finds himself staring at Miles' body as if waiting for a response. "You killed him for _me_?"

The realisation makes his brain ache. A contradiction rips apart at his insides, because he feels dirty and sinful to have that blood on his hands –to be the sole reason for any killing, but on the other, touched, somehow. That between all of that destruction and killing, he was spared. It doesn't matter if it was a conscious decision on Miles' part, or mere omission by the swarm. All that matters is that he's here, now.

The thick black pall doesn't appear to be clearing. Waylon would remain where he is perpetually were it not for the colour of Miles' hand –the only flesh of the other man he can see. It's so pale, it's practically luminescent.

The most discernible emotion he feels then is fear –not at all for himself –no, he's secondary to this. He's terrified that Miles is gone. He's terrified that he has failed him.

Waylon saw what the swarm did to Jeremy. He saw the body count –and the wild fear of the inmates, whose only grasp on reality was desperate fear of that thing. He knows all of this, and yet, it is with immeasurable courage that he reaches out again, fighting to pull Miles onto his back despite the very loud hum of the swarm, as if in warning.

He never stops being terrified. It seizes up every joint in his body and makes him tremble, but he presses, for Miles' sake. For the sake of repaying the debt he owes him.

In the asylum, he would write notes to Lisa, when he got the chance. When he felt safe. Imagining he could reach her always somehow helped, and now, it's the only strategy he has to deal with the terror gripping him.

"Oh, God."

Miles' face is barely distinguishable. Blood sullies it, dry and hard, with white, angry lines cut through it by fat tears that are long gone. Dark, clotted blood shines beneath his nose, and in the corner of his eyes. He must have bled from them. The force of that thing awakening from dormancy did this, but at least if Miles is some kind of host he'll be kept alive.

But in what capacity alive? Will he still be-...will he still be Miles? Or merely a vessel?

Waylon goes to move a hand to Miles' neck, for a pulse. For a confirmation that he hasn't been left alone to drag a body behind him the rest of his life. His hand pauses, above the cooling body, still shaking.

"Easy," He tells himself. "I'm –I'm not gonna hurt you. I just-..." Waylon swallows. God, he wishes he was braver, but all he can feel is horror at this situation. He still despises Miles –for all of those things he said, for his single-mindedness and cruelty but he forgives him without a thought. He'd give –he'd give anything to go back to yesterday morning where he had Lisa and there was no Walrider and even if Miles was distant from him, at easy he wasn't –wasn't near death, so small and white when he should be universes tall.

Waylon finally exhales after holding his breath for what feels like hours. His hand darts out to Miles' neck –ignoring the hiss of the black pall and feeling for something; anything to indicate life.

And he finds it. He feels this tiny pulse thrumming there and he can no longer control himself –this cry comes out of Waylon and he slumps back, his breath coming back to him in enormous waves. It relieves him –but the largest part of him knows that it is not enough. There is work to be done.

When he reaches out again, he hears that telltale hiss, and his brain aches as his vision throbs once more. He can't afford to be afraid or run from this. Waylon feels like he has been running his entire life, and however dizzy and awful the truth is, he must stare it in the face.

His voice is still small and broken from having the life squeezed out of him. It quivers when he tries to speak. If he talks to Miles, for whatever reason, it makes him feel less afraid. Less alone.

"L-let's see –what we could..." He tries to come up with some sort of strategy. He figures that the dark isn't helping anybody –so the first thing he can do is turn on the light. He can do this.

Rising, shakily, afraid to leave the body where it is, he backs toward the light, never letting Miles out of his sight. It takes a few blind moments until he feels the switch against his palm and flicks it. The light burns his eyes immediately, blinding him, and for a second he can't see a thing, but when his eyes adjust, he can see just how blood there is. Just like –just like-...

He crawls forward, by increments, fighting against every instinct, until he's at Miles' shoulder. His hand goes, boldly, to the left shoulder, feeling it cooling and broad beneath his hand for just a second before he draws back away from the hiss of the static.

"I –I'm just trying to-..." He sighs, softly, feeling bolder. With a sigh, he moves a hand down until he can secure a hand on the man's upper arm and pull him to sitting, with great difficulty, despite the hiss and the feeling of faint resistance. "It's alright," He says trying to offer some comfort, but when he looks down at Miles' bloody, slack face, fresh and bruised from Waylon's own hand, he is reminded that Miles can't hear him. And even if he could, the words wouldn't do much at all.

Still, he persists, easing Miles into a slightly better sitting position, and making sure of a pulse once more. "It's alright," He whispers, softly. "We're alright."

-

"Are you alright?"

Waylon paces in his kitchen. It is quarter to three in the morning and after three hotel coffees he has never felt so awake. Each of his senses twitch –the anxiety in his chest causing the tremble in the arm holding his phone to his ear. Lisa can tell every bit of tension in him by how tight and clipped his tone is.

She repeats herself, calm but with authority. "Way, are you alright now?"

"I-" His voice comes out comically hoarse. After all of that hydration, his throat still aches. "I guess for now-...I'm –I'm not sure what to do, Leese. I really thought he was going to-..." For a second, Waylon's momentum slows, and he's convinced he'll fall into the chair and never move. So, he continues to walk around, because it's the only thing he can do.

The blood on the floor is gone. It was oddly cathartic to clean it up. As if the blood was the mess of his mind, and he could clean it right off and be clean again, untouched by misery or horror. Miles is in his room, after the ordeal of Waylon having to drag him (though adrenaline is a fine replacement for upper-body strength). There is nothing left for Waylon to do that will fix things. And it's the only thing he wants to do.

Lisa isn't shaken by many things. She is like the world's tallest mountain –the only other solid thing Waylon has left in a world of water. But at his panic, he can hear fear rise in her.

"Waylon." she says, quietly. "What was that _thing _designed for? The –the swarm?"

Waylon sighs. He sits in a chair, at last, giving in to his anxiety. He wants to be far away from this terrible place and this horrible situation. "I don't know –it was all top secret. They wanted to –to make a host. To control it."

Her voices is a trembling whisper when it comes to him, suddenly very close, and almost intimate like she's afraid Miles will hear. "You need to get out of there. I don't want that thing to hurt you-"

For some reason, Waylon's first instinct is not to comfort her. He says. "It's not-..." A near whimper escapes him. "Miles is still in there, somewhere. And he wouldn't-"

"Where was Miles when you were being strangled?! For God's sake, I don't want to lose you because you feel sorry for him, Waylon –I thought I lost you once and I can't live through that again! _You-..."_ She trails off, the sudden thunder of her voice muting to soft showers, and then he can hear tears threatening to come on her end of the line. "You've seen what that thing is capable of –and they couldn't control it. You said so yourself." Her voice comes to a halt with a sigh. "Do you really think that –that Miles _can_?"

"I-" His voice dries up, and he swallows. "I don't know, Leese. I never even knew until I saw it today."

There is a tentative silence. Waylon thinks that he has said the wrong thing, and maybe after all of these years of hearing it he should realise that he is a bleeding heart and he needs to put his survival before whatever feelings he has for Miles. And yet, how can he condemn Miles to whatever semblance of life he's doomed to have _alone_? He is the only one who knows –the only one who will ever understand Waylon's nightmares, and ounce for ounce he is more precious than gold.

"I'll figure something out." He promises her. "You're not gonna lose me. I'm not going anywhere, you know."

"Promise me," she says, her voice suddenly tight and wounded.

"Leese, you know I'll always-"

"_No_." She says, in a quick whisper. "No. I want you to promise me something else." Her words stay there in the silence between them for a few minutes, and Waylon has the premonition that she's going to say something awful. "You_ promise_ me –that if it comes to it, and he loses control..."

"I'm not going anywhere, Leese." He says, softly. And he dares to believe it, too. "I'm going to keep on bothering you for a while yet. I'm gonna let the boys go to bed late and give our daughter an old woman's name."

That makes Lisa laugh, and the issue is dropped, for now. She humours Waylon's idyllic talk of the future, because she knows it comforts him –not just the details, but the suggestion of a future he gets to see, and be a part of.

"You're really set on the idea of having a girl, aren't you?"

"It'd be nice." He says, quietly. "Wouldn't it?"

Lisa makes a noise of thought. "I don't disagree with you," She tells him, the tone of worry far from gone. "I just haven't had the chance to give it much thought. We'll have plenty to time to think about it when you come home, though, Way."

_When_. Not _if_. Lisa isn't being sentimental –she's holding him to the terms of their agreement. And Waylon is a loyal man, if he's anything.

"You bet." He tells her, with the first bit of conviction he's had in a long time. "Are the boys alright?"

Lisa sighs. "I think so." She says. "The travelling is hard on them, and you being away makes them very upset. Colin barely says anything anymore –I don't know if I should take him to see a doctor, or just let him be." Usually, Lisa is less honest, because she doesn't want to worry him, but Waylon has found her in a moment where no guard is available, and only the truth seems to come to her.

"I'll come home." Waylon says, sure of it. "I'll come home soon, I promise, and it'll be alright."

"I know." She says, softer this time. "You have to make it home first, though."

Waylon sees the insinuation, and once again, of all things to feel, defence rises in his throat. "It's not going to come to that." She's silent to that much, so he prompts her. "Alright?"

Another deep sigh. "Alright, Way." She says. "You know I love you."

"I love you too."

For a very long time after her voice is faded from his ears and the call is ended, he remains sat, shaking with nerves, considering their whole conversation. Because he has made promises to Lisa and the boys –in marriage and fatherhood that supersede the rusting, atlantic cable that shackles him to Miles, and yet he still owes Miles a debt. He doesn't want to die to get even –and he doesn't want to lose Miles who is the only one left with him.

But what if it's too late? What if Miles is now just a body –a vessel for that thing? And Waylon never told him that he was sorry enough times –he never told him how brave he thought Miles was, and how admirable and how Waylon wished to have just an inch of the man's courage and conviction and willingness to battle the world.

He doesn't know if he could live with that much guilt. It would kill him. Or he would kill himself, just to end the sadness.

The thought is so terrible, and he feels so genuinely afraid that the only thing he can think to do is creep down the hall, as silent and sorry as a dead man, and peer in to where he left Miles, cooling and pale, but alive. It calms him to see the man's body –and it calms him even more when he notices the man's shallow breathing.

The murky black swarm is less visible. Miles is illuminated by the bedside lamp and Waylon is sure that if it were not for the blood on his face, he would look as he does when he sleeps. For once, at peace with the world.

For a few moments Waylon just watches, assuring himself, pretending that Miles is simply resting and when he wakes the world will be the same chaos it was before –though, the chaos is survivable when they have eachother. He leans hard on the jamb of the door in that time, and when he finally gets a hold of himself again, he limp back silently up the hall, too exhausted to face the truth for longer.

He locks his bedroom door that night –despite the warning he was once given. That the doors couldn't keep it out. Still, the bolt remains in place and he climbs into his sheets, staring at the ceiling for some unknown amount of time feeling fearful and guilt and sorry.

It feels like forever. Eventually, though, the emotions exhaust him, and he is claimed by sleep.

-

In the morning, he showers himself and orders two breakfasts. He dries of and reads the newspaper and leaves a solitary plate of food on Miles' night stand.

He goes to therapy.

At lunch, he orders for two, and takes out the untouched food of breakfast for room service to take away, replacing it with fresh lunch in the hopes it will stir the man or do something.

And then, at last, he orders for dinner, having never been hungry in his entire life, he takes away Miles' lunch and replaces that with dinner.

This is what the game is.

Miles never stirs. He breathes, and remains alive, but there is no indication of to what capacity 'alive' is. Some colour returns to him, and at one point when Waylon leans in to his room to check up on him, he has turned onto his side above the sheets. It gives him so kind of hope, but not nearly enough. With each passing, silent hour, and each untouched meal his hope dwindles and dwindles.

After a while, Waylon stops feeling fear. Or guilt. Or anxiety. He doesn't feel anything. He merely fills the time, waiting, unable and unwilling to believe that this is it, and Miles has left him this way. Unable to believe he is stranded alone aboard the ark.

Adrift, at sea, he continues this game of his for some time. It gives him no motivation to eat, and after the second day, Waylon is turning out two unfinished meals rather than one, finding no sustenance in the food.

Two days. Two days of silence, and apprehension and dreamlessness.

There must be something he can do.

-

On the third night, he does something.

Waylon leans in his door again with a bowl of water in one hand and a washcloth draped over his wrist. He isn't sure if Miles is passed out or sleeping or in some kind of stasis. Not that is matters –he shows no signs of waking up anytime soon.

Dinner is still at Miles' bedside, cold now, just as he left it. And Miles is prostrate, just as he left him.

He moves further into the room, one that he has never dared to spend more than seconds in at a time. The short while they have been in this place has seen Waylon making it his home, for now, with photographs and mess. There isn't a trace of Miles visible out there. But in here, it's a mess of clothes and books, papers pinned to the walls and reams of a4 being belched from fat files.

Waylon has never had the gall to poke around in any of it. He still knocks, sometimes, before he comes into Miles' room, expecting to hear a huff and a dismissal. It still feels necessary to Waylon –he was brought up that way, even if dead or dying men can't answer doors, and don't have enough time left for formalities.

Still, he advances, clearing some room to put the bowl of water down and half-dipping the cloth into it. He settles himself on the edge of the mattress, feeling horribly intrusive, but not knowing what else to do.

And Miles was right –about keeping busy. When Waylon thinks of all the affairs he has to put in order, killing himself seems nonsensical. Not when there's so much left to do. But when things are sparser –clearer...that's when he feels the grip of apathy strongest.

With a shaky hand, he pulls Miles onto his back again, feeling and hearing nothing of the walrider. It makes him want to believe it was all some daydream and that Miles is just sick with the flu or something else beautifully commonplace.

Most of the blood on Miles' face has been sweated off, or wiped off by the sheets. But there is still some left, and a glistening layer of sweat that makes Miles look weaker than he should, by rights. What Waylon notices, most of all, is the livid purple spread across Miles' cheek, dipping to the bag of his left eye and making him look even more exhausted.

Waylon traces a hand over it and feels guilt stab at him. "I'm sorry," He says, as if the apology means anything now.

There's no use feeling guilty, though. Waylon knows that if he starts, now, he may never stop.

In lieu of guilt, he takes some action, and strains the cloth to a reasonable dampness before starting at Miles' brow and cleaning a shaky line of sweat and grime and blood. The washcloth, once white, comes away dirty, but it works.

It's sort of comforting to Waylon. In some way, he feels obligated to help Miles all that he can, because ultimately, had Miles not responded to that email, and gone to hell, there would have been nobody to save Waylon. In some convoluted way, he does owe the man his life. But it's more than that debt –the one he is aware he'll never fully be able to repay. This gives him purpose. It makes him useful.

Godwilling, Waylon has never been much use to anybody, but right now, he is the only thing bridging the gap between Miles and the waking, restless world.

With a steadier hand, this time, he washes the cloth in the water again and traces a line down the side of Miles' face. And then again, and again, until one half of his pace is pale, but clean, and he does look like he's sleeping peacefully.

Motivated by that much, he continues, sidling up closer to Miles' body until he can get to the other side of the man's face. With a hand, he turns it softly, towards him. He swallows, suddenly, feeling shy of whatever he's going. God, what is he doing?

"I don't-..." He swallows, wanting Miles to hear him. Wanting desperately to be understood. "I don't know how to help you. Just please don't leave me here."

There is no response discernible, and at leaves Waylon staring down at Miles helplessly. He sighs, hard, and leans back on his hands, trying to find an explanation as to why or how he has found himself in this strange and awful situation. His eyes wander around the room, properly, for the first time, and he can see a thousand different versions of the man before him in photographs, smiling, and in articles and in paper clippings as a featured writer.

What happened to Miles Upshur, the ambitious and young and lovely? Waylon tries to imagine him as he appears in the photograph on the dresser, laughing, looking so carefree instead of feeling a bitter thousand years old.

It would be too easy for Waylon to give up now. Instead, he focuses once more, and manages to get his hands to stop shaking enough to wash the rest of Miles' face clean.

When he comes to the bruise across Miles' cheekbone, his hands tremble, and he tries to be as gentle as possible. As a rule, Waylon doesn't like violence of any sort. He doesn't like raised voices and he doesn't like retaliating and if he wants his boys to learn anything from him then he hopes it's that much. The guilt makes his hands shake more, and he feels especially heavy-handed, trying to clean it.

Waylon must press too hard, because Miles actually groans out, very slightly, and moves his head away.

Completely unprepared, Waylon lurches back and swallows, expecting the gentle movement to be followed by the warning hiss of the walrider, or it's appearance.

Waylon remains at a distance for a few moments, catching his breath, before he feels himself laughing, at first out of panic, but then of resignation. "God, Miles," He breathes, settling closer to the man once more.

He tries to ignore or fight the smile breaking out of him like some grand betrayal. But the sign he had been searching for –to confirm that in some way, Miles is still alive –that was it. Maybe it isn't much, but Waylon knows, better than anyone, the value of hope.

With a gentle smile, he puts the washcloth into the bowl and moves further up the bed, trying to scout for any further signs of waking from Miles. There are none, but he looks far cleaner, and even the smallest indication has been enough for Waylon.

Waylon feels some closure at that, and a wave of exhaustion soaks him. He feels that he has completed some purpose, and now without such desperate worry, he might be able to get some sleep.

He wonders if it would be safe to sleep here, in Miles' atmosphere. To himself, Waylon reasons that the swarm perceived him as a threat when he hit Miles –but surely, now, he is anything but. On one hand, he has no desire to tempt fate, and break his promise to Lisa, but on the other, he doesn't want to leave Miles here, all alone to wake confused and in the dark.

It feels as if he is always at odds with himself.

Sighing, Waylon crawls until he is lying besides Miles, and for a few seconds he remains there. His eyes close and he tries to pretend that he is somewhere else with Miles –that they are bound by choice and loyalties and not by some rusting chain.

Tentatively, he leans and leaves a small kiss on Miles' unbruised collarbone, and whispers to him softly. "Don't let them win, Miles, for God's sake." His voice is so small, "Just –just wake up. Please."

He leaves those words for Miles on the sheets, and crawls back to his own bed, hating that he locks the door, still, and hating that for now, he is the last one standing.

The worry and stress of the past few days alone finally catch up with him.

Waylon sleeps.


	14. Chapter 14

Waylon sleeps peacefully or the first time in a long time. But the sun persists in rising.

At first, when he wakes, he thinks he hears the roar of the shower, or the vague flicker of television indicating normalcy. For a second, he has forgotten all about the game he's been playing the last three days. The one with no winners.

But soon enough, he becomes cognitive enough to realise, remembering the agonising past few days, and the smallest seedling of hope last night, pushing through the rubble. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about it only to hope in vain, but that doesn't make the slightest bit of difference either way. Waylon seldom gets what he wants

The atlantic cable wound around his ankles is tugged on the other end, and he rises to it, attentively.

He orders two breakfasts and wanders into the bathroom while he waits, to try to prepare for the day. His hair is still relatively in one place, and he has never needed to shave very often. By nature, Waylon is neat. He brushes his teeth in the mirror, only looking up when something catches his eye.

The marks on his neck have gone from livid red to purple, now, so stark and noticeable that he is impressed.

Briefly, he wonders if the incident was only supposed to serve as a warning, or if there was kind of internal struggle between Miles, and the walrider. He'd like to think so. Waylon remembers what had happened to Jeremy, and that had seemed no effort at all for the swarm. If the intention had been to kill him, he'd be dead by now.

Breakfast comes promptly. Waylon leaves his own tray in the kitchen and wanders into Miles' room. A surge of emotions crescendo in him as he draws nearer to the threshold and he pauses to steady himself, his ankle especially awkward today. As he leans in the door, he can see that Miles has moved again, in the night, and now he's lying, curled slightly, on his side. His face is still clean and neutral. Waylon thinks he will never get used to seeing it outside of this permanent scowl Miles usually hides behind.

Almost nervously, he finds a place for breakfast and takes out dinner –ignored and untouched. Waylon likes the idea that at any moment Miles will rouse and grumble at being disturbed. He supposes he can like it all he wants –there's not a sigh from Miles this morning.

Waylon finishes his own breakfast alone. He rests his weaker ankle on the chair across from him and finishes all that he can –pushing himself to continue, and feeling this odd rush of pride when he finishes half of it.

Instead of reading the newspaper this morning, he nurses his ankle tentatively. The movement in the joint itself is inconsistent, at best, and he still can't curl his toes. Waylon knows that he will likely live the rest of his life limping from place to place, but the thought no longer scares him. He had thought –pursued by Gluskin, with no means of escape or access to antibiotics that he was going to lose the foot from infection. It may be a raw deal, but Waylon knows things could have been worse.

He only has to look at Miles to be reminded of that, and some days the guilt makes him sick.

Alone, he finds himself completely without motivation, trapped by his own guilt in 103. The terms of his promise to Lisa still ring in his ears, and it makes him guilty for staying there. For letting Miles pull a loaded gun on him and remaining still, as if his hope in the other man's morality is enough.

Having nothing else to occupy him, Waylon collects the playing cards from the sitting area one by one, until they are in a pile on the table. Unable to stand looking at them, he throws the deck in the bin, and tries to forget.

Nostalgia never was his strongest suit.

And as it turns out, solace is his weakest. Waylon finds himself wishing that the swarm would become active, just to see Miles do something. The comatose state he's in cannot be mistaken for sleep -and that's the worst part. At least if he were sleeping, he'd be on some level conscious. He'd be on some level Miles –free to dream his own dreams, free to wake, eventually.

The game can only continue for so long. Waylon caves –he has been strong for long enough that his resolve breaks, and the recklessness of his desperation talks him into crawling up Miles' mattress, next to the man's cool body.

He leans against Miles' chest and hates himself for the feeling of reassurance he gets there. If he presses his head against Miles' chest he can hear a faint pulse and it chases away the worst of his fears until he feels something not too far away from peace. The man breathes, just about, and the hope is large enough for Waylon to get his fingers around, and clutch onto.

The room is warm, and Waylon begins to sweat in the embrace, but remains against the other man until he feels calm enough to sleep. His arms wind around Miles until he feels less alone.

"Find your way back." Waylon says to him. "If anybody could –it'd be you. Find your way back."

He remains there, wide-eyed, listening to Miles' heart for what could be hours. It doesn't matter if he swarm appears. It doesn't matter if he is killed by the walrider, because at least his last few moments would be of peace.

At least, for now, he can sleep.

-

The cars are too excitable. It is winter here.

Consciousness rises in his ears and his eyelids and his throat –dry as the Kalahari and lonely without voice. His eyes remain closed to the world, two lenses of mercy, and his pulse pushes on, plying like wild cells in the day's shadow.

Sustained, like water, something holds him.

The touch registers to him like sunrise –having always been, in some sense, but when his dizzy gaze fixes upon it, the intensity is too much to bear. In any case, the touch feels too red, it hurts him. The feel of cloth like white swaddling –or gift paper, registers to him vaguely, and it comes to him on the edge of breathing –but not his own.

Some kind of words come to him –but they cannot be deciphered, overexposed, like radiation. Who does the voice think it belongs to? Some type of communion? Miles will take no bite of it's body –of the bottle in which he lives.

Colours come for him next –the worst of all. White and decellularised, green as eunuchs, they hiss at his sins and burn his brain.

Off, off! –he fights against it, until he feels nothing but calm darkness, steady as the ocean, and soft skin against him.

He recognises the touch, the colour –he calls it blue, but there is another name stuck in his throat. And he convinces himself, still that while every lucid point of contact he feels is through the touch of another, there is nothing between them.

-

At some point in the night, Waylon wakes.

He feels something pushing against him, perhaps trying to make pace in the expanse of sheets, perhaps pushing him away, and when he realises that he's not in bed with Lisa, or any of the boys, alertness blows his eyes open and he turns on his side.

Miles isn't awake, as such, but he's groaning softly, turning onto his side. The sound is soft, and the action doesn't take more than three seconds.

But Waylon could cry.

That's what he's been waiting for. Small as it is, it signifies some great change, because now he can hear Miles breathing from the other side of the bed, and it feels like he's sleeping now –not dead or gone, or unresponsive.

Swallowing, Waylon crawls to the other side of the bed and presses his cheek to Miles' back as he hugs him, feeling words come out of his out deliriously. "Miles?" He whispers. "Tell me you can hear me –please."

He doesn't dare to believe the words go anywhere but his own ears, and it almost horrifies him when Miles grumbles again, and rolls further onto his side. That's all the confirmation he needs and when Waylon pulls himself close to Miles again he can feel his eyes glistening and his chest tightening with violent affection –not the soft, still waters that he associates with his marriage, but some flash-flood, where the water burns to touch.

The tears don't escape down his face, thankfully, and he props himself on one arm to get a better look at Miles. There's no light but moonlight, and from the very early sunrise, but it's enough to make him out by.

This time, Waylon doesn't kiss him, too afraid that those eyes will crack open, terrible as thunder, and he will justify himself to Miles when he can barely reason in his own mind. All he does is pull Miles back towards him, feeling the tears steam up his vision.

"Wake up." He says, quietly, into Miles' spine. "You'll –you'll wake up for me, okay, Miles?"

The man exhales sleepily but gives no response or indication he has heard.

But it's enough for Waylon. "Okay," He says, shutting his eyes, and that's when a solitary tear breaks. He sniffs, ashamed, and says, "I'll hold you to it."

There's no answer right away. Not that Waylon minds –he presses himself close into the other man's warmth, forgetting all about the walrider, and of fear.

All he thinks about is the promise of waking. He lets Miles sleep on it.

-

The promise of sunlight is not what wakes Waylon.

Sunlight has nothing to do with it –faint mauve outside of his window, swelling in colour, growing lighter and bolder at a gradual pace. He notices it as he turns onto his side, facing the window, and catching a slice of sky for but a few seconds until he hears an awful groan.

He turns to his other side.

One of Miles' hands is pushing back against hair greasy lustrous hair, the other pinching a bleeding nose. He has moved onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, face still white as moonlight, but far from tranquil. The groan coming out of him is rusty and weathered, as if it has been trapped in his lungs for days. Has he been in pain? Has Waylon neglected him so terribly?

Stricken, Waylon turns onto his side and touches Miles' arm, gently, so as not to alarm him. "Miles?" He says, striving to offer tranquillity in his tone. "Miles, can you hear me?"

In the second Miles' groan trails off, he takes in these stuttering breaths, as if he has forgotten how to exist. The hand covering his nose comes away more obscene and red than a swastika, and it's then Waylon can read the amount of pain in Miles' face. He must be trying to put the last conscious events in his memory together. He must be working out where he is.

Waylon hardly notices himself until he sees something wet drop onto the pillow he's propped his elbow on. It's a tear –he's crying already. Not some great show at all, but something that has bypassed his consciousness entirely, torn out of him. And not out of sadness but disbelief and joy. He was so scared that Miles –his Miles, would never wake, and some terrible apparition would use him like a cracked vessel, sinking to the bottom of the dark ocean floor.

Another stab of pain appears to grip Miles, and his eyes open, furious at the world. They search the half-darkness almost angrily until they settle upon Waylon.

For a few second, even then, Miles seems too exhausted to speak. His eyes go from angry to half-lidded, and his gaze on Waylon softens. Blindly, a four-fingered hand fumbles in the darkness, still bloody, and settles on Waylon's arm.

In a voice that does not suit Miles, the man gasps out, "Are –are you real?"

Waylon hears himself laugh. It comes out of him, and then his smile hurts and he devolves into a thick swallow to hide the inevitable sob. He had been so lonely and afraid. He thought that Miles had left him here all alone and Waylon isn't strong enough to beat this alone.

It's okay. He knows, sure as Miles' eyes are open; he doesn't have to.

Still looking at him, the grip Miles has on his arm tightens. As if he really fears that Waylon will dissolve before his helpless sight. So Waylon nods, trying his best to save face.

"It's alright." He says, trying to draw from the times he has comforted his sons from their nightmares. "It's alright now. It's over."

Miles remains looking at him, eyes brimming with questions, the whites of them yellow, the sockets purple, and Waylon realises, guiltily, that Miles is probably in desperate want for food or painkillers or a glass of water. He's still breathing very shakily, white as the snow outside, stuck with grease and unkempt from the four days he has lost.

They stay there for a small while. Miles doesn't seem in a hurry to clear the blood from his face or hands. He just settles his breathing, and battles to keep his eyes open and vision still. The grip he keeps on Waylon never wavers, and ten minutes must pass in silence before Miles can gather the strength to speak again.

"Am I –I don't understand-..."

Waylon has heard those words before, and he thinks, quickly, better to explain in his own sloppy way than have Miles burn up what might be left of his consciousness trying to remember. And they both have seen too much of blood. As if to settle him, Waylon forces himself to talk.

"You've been –sleeping. For the past few days." He tries to sound assuring and soft. He tries not to convey the helplessness and worry that have been making him weaker and sicker while Miles slept. There is no good way to explain what happened. "It's all a lot to take in. I don't want you to get –overwhelmed."

If Miles were feeling even the tiniest bit stronger, there's no doubt he'd bite at the patronising ton, and the insinuation. But he's barely able to lift his head from the pillow, everything still in a state of flux before him, the bricks on the walls half-rendered to his sight. The only thing stable, and normal, is Waylon.

"How long?" He says, with his eyes closed. Things are too violent before him –they hurt his vision. Even the sound of his own voice is not merciful to his ears.

Waylon's is soft and life-giving, dazzling as ocean water. "Four days. I-..." even his pauses have elegance. "I thought you'd never wake up, Miles."

At his name, Miles opens his eyes, and despite the consumptive pallor of his face or the obscenity of blood spattering it, he smiles, tiredly. Not with his mouth, but with his eyes, shining like raw diamonds in the darkness.

"You can't get rid of me—so _easy_." He gets out, eventually, exhaling what could be a little laugh at the end but sounds far too tired. Waylon hates to see him like this –drained and weak and vulnerable. He wonders if this is how Miles looks at him, with a mixture of sorrow and pity, and this great desire to be proven wrong. "Christ," He groans. "I need a cigarette."

Waylon draws back, looking at the empty carton on the nightstand in dismay. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Oh, blow me." Miles grumbles, despite his voice being quiet, and ruined. He tries to turn himself over but lacks any capacity for it, and remains on his side, out of breath, the white of his face becoming slowly pink.

It's obvious he must be in terrible pain. Waylon goes to move to the edge of the bed, still feeling the grip on his arm. Miles doesn't look as if he's about to let go, and he talks into the sheets. "Are you leaving?"

"I'm going to get you some Tylenol. And some water." Waylon doesn't have to think before the words come out –he wants to settle to fear and unease in Miles' voice. "I'll be back in a second, okay?"

Miles nods and his grip slackens very slightly until he has let go. "Okay." He says, quietly, distantly, the blood from his nose starting to bloom poppy red in the white sheets. "I'll hold you to it."

It hurts Waylon to leave him. He's so scare that he'll come back and Miles will be dead, or asleep again, but he knows that they can't stay there forever. There's no sense in easting the miracle of Miles' consciousness by letting him remain in pain, so he gets up, slowly, and walks across the room as quietly as he can. He tries to be quick in the sitting area, despite his limp, finding the Tylenol, gathering the water, and then bringing in the toilet roll so that he can clean up Miles' face.

He limps back to Miles' door, suddenly panicked, and is flooded with relief to see Miles, still face-down in the sheets with his eyes open. His expression softens on seeing it, and it's with relative calm that Waylon perches himself on the edge of the mattress, finding space on the cluttered nightstand for the glass and the toilet paper.

He needs both hands to turn Miles onto his back again. To his credit, Miles does try to help, but is so weak and exhausted by the end of it that Waylon does most of the work without ending up half as breathless. After that, Miles is much less resistant to being moved, and lets Waylon manoeuvre him until he is sat against the bed's headboard.

"Are you going to be able to hold the glass?"

It's nearly comic how bonelessly Miles' head rolls when he shakes it, swallowing. "I really doubt it."

Waylon is halfway to offering the water when he pauses, frowning. "How were you planning to smoke, then, if you can't lift anything?"

Tiredly, Miles laughs, and his eyes roll in their purple sockets. He doesn't give an answer, but, to be truthful, Waylon doesn't think him up to giving one and holds out no expectations for much conversation. At any rate, Waylon is easy enough to read, and it wouldn't take words for Miles to see how desperately glad he is to see him.

"Alright," He comes a little closer to Miles and holds the glass, shakily, trying to focus on how the sunrise turns it a mix of pink and blue, and not on how Miles' eyes are open, and he's breathing and looking at Waylon and he is no longer alone. "Do you want me to-..." He swallows, feeling suddenly embarrassed as he wonders how he's going to do this.

Slowly, he leans across Miles and puts the rim of the glass to his lips. It takes a few seconds for Miles to lift his hands up, fingertips just gracing the underside of the glass, more to help position it than to take any of the weight. It seems to work, and when Miles looks at him, with certainty, he tilts the glass back and lets Miles drink at his own pace.

When all of the water is gone, Waylon draws back and sets the empty glass down. He opts for the tissue instead, and turns back to Miles. Now that he is being looked at, Waylon feels terribly shy about the ordeal. Before, he had fallen asleep pressed into the other man's back feeling warm and contended, but now, being in his gaze is utter torture.

Still, he persists, tilting Miles' face towards him and wiping sideways with the tissue. "Does it hurt?"

"Not now." Miles voice sounds better for the water, but is still but a shade of it's usual form. As Waylon draws back with a bloody tissue, he elaborates further. "Can you –I'm starved. Could you..?"

It's too early for breakfast to be served yet. At a guess, it must be six or so, perhaps later. The only thing Waylon can think to do is find a convenience store open this early –something he had done many times at stranger hours when Lisa was pregnant.

"The hotel won't serve food this early." He says, looking over his shoulder at the sunrise, just broken, to illustrate his point. "But I could run down to a-"

The grip Miles had on his arm returns, and with a pathetic amount of force miles tries to jerk Waylon backwards. "Stay." He murmurs, with questionable authority. "I can wait."

The logical part of Waylon's mind –the one with the numbers and the reasons, it fights against the suggestion, because Miles needs to eat, and it will be quicker than waiting for the sun to rise. And yet, the other parts of Waylon' mind: his bleeding heart and his perpetually guilty conscience speak louder. They are, ultimately, all that Waylon hears when he goes slack, and moves backwards to sit up next to Miles.

"Thanks." Is what Miles says. It's all he needs to.

They sit like that for a few minutes. Miles is uncharacteristically silent throughout, perhaps trying to muster his strength or get his story together. Either way, Waylon doesn't want to disrupt the peace between them. It's all he has wanted to remain still, knowing that whatever happens, however terrible, at least he isn't alone.

Miles is of a different constitution. He can barely move, but finds his feet in talking with relative ease. "I'm –I'm glad to see you, Park." His voice is sleepy, and quiet, but it becomes emotional very fast. "And I didn't mean those things I said –about your wife. I never meant for you-..."

It's hard to hear. All Waylon can perceive is his own faults, appearing through the woodwork. How hard he hit Miles, how he pressed when the other man was clearly agitated. Maybe he deserved what he got. Yet, what Waylon manages to get out is different entirely. "It doesn't matter now." He says, gently.

"It does." Miles says –probably just to be contrary. "I never should have said –any of that. I was just so –so _angry_. I could f-feel it _all,_ and I didn't know what to do."

That piques Waylon's interest. "All of what?"

He fears he has said the wrong thing when Miles makes a noise of pain and tilts his head back, further, his eyes shutting again. _"Everything_. Everything that Billy _ever felt_, and everything I ever felt, all at once. All of that anger, and fear, and knowledge –and I could hear it getting louder."

"Louder?"

Miles is delirious by now. His face is white and his eyes are wide as he explains, breathless and almost horrified. "Like television static. And I got angrier and it got louder and then –then I-!"

A noise of pain escape him, and he shudders when more blood comes, thick and fast. Waylon is as attentive as he can be, leaning across to stem the flow before it can leave gaudy marks in the sheets, or on Miles' sweat-soaked shirt. The blood flow thins, eventually, but Miles' gasps in pain do not. His breathing starts to come in jagged intervals, growing heavier and heavier until he can open his eyes again.

And when he does, they are shining with tears. "What am I?!" He cries out, in a terrified whisper. "Am I that –that _thing_?!"

Waylon has no idea how to settle Miles in this state. He is too used to being the one hysterical. Seeing Miles like this is awful, and in a panic he moves his other hand to the man's brow to feel for a temperature –something to explain Miles' behaviour.

"It's not like that." Waylon urges him. "You're Miles. You're still-...you're still you."

It does seem to ease Miles somewhat. He looks at Waylon for a very long time, considering things. He doesn't let his fear get the better of him and end him off into delirium. Nervously, swallowing, Miles gets out, "But –but I saw-"

"Forget about it." He says, resolutely. "For now, at least. You need to save your strength." He manages to sound stern, not by the natural authority that people like Lisa have, but by the practise of putting young children to bed. That, and Waylon doesn't want to see him like before –weak and unresponsive. He doesn't want to speak of the devil, so to speak, only to have it take hold of the last precious thing he has.

Miles doesn't argue. Not immediately, at least. His eyes open and they search Waylon's face desperately for some clue, or any indication of what he is, and if he should be afraid. By all rights, he should be as terrified as Waylon was –they both should. But Waylon doesn't have any adrenaline left, and he can only feel gladness.

After a while, Miles settles his breathing, and his head drops onto Waylon's shoulder. He seems to be deep in thought about something, but Waylon doesn't ask. He doesn't envy Miles, being host to that thing, unable to understand it, or control it or even think about it without some kind of bloody, violent reaction. Even on the outside, as an observer, he doesn't understand, and doesn't want to. He prays it was an isolated incident –a one-off, and Miles can live his life peacefully and Waylon should have no reason to be afraid of him –should have no reason not to feel anything but warmth at his presence.

"You –you saw it." Miles says, very quietly. "You saw that thing. The walrider. Why –why didn't you leave? I could have killed you-"

Waylon doesn't want to talk about it. He isn't ready to put words on the whys and hows of the scenario, still, only half-aware of what he feels, and the greater implications of that. Miles takes his hand very weakly and swallows.

"Don't do that again, Park. I –I'm serious. You gotta worry about yourself."

Waylon smiles, despite himself. "Most people say thank you."

Miles wants to argue at that, but is still too weak for a fight, or much of anything. At Waylon's words, he sighs, with great frustration, but makes no attempt to move his head from his shoulder. The subject is dropped for now, but only because Miles isn't up to making his point. Instead, he sighs, and murmurs, "Did you –did you stay?"

Silently, Waylon nods. "I didn't want to be the last one standing." He says, in a tight voice. It doesn't in any way express all that he feels in that moment –guilt, for Lisa's sake, joy for his own, worry for Miles, fear for his safety, confusion at where they have found themselves. All it conveys is home.

"Is that why you were in my bed?"

At that, Waylon seizes up. He has nothing so eloquent prepared for that, and the guilt in him flares like a bolt of lightning. His mouth is dry when he finally does find words, not hurried by Miles, who stays limp and still against him.

"I just thought, if you heard a voice you knew, it might help you to...to get home. I wanted you to be able to hear me."

For once, Miles doesn't mock him. No, he doesn't say anything at all. He remains against Waylon for a very long time, lacking the strength or reason to argue, and Waylon thinks he likes this alot –he thinks that if he woke from terrible nightmare this is what he'd like to wake up to: soft line, and faint breathing in his ear and the warmth of Miles next to him.

It's not like when Lisa wakes him –stern assurances that all is well, and peace and love with all of these implicit desires, and hopes that Waylon is too scared of failing to feel comforted. And Miles hasn't got a bit of judgement in him –no wrath or envy or malice alike, because they are the same. They are reflections in the surface of the ocean, a silver mirror, gleeful down in the briney.

Waylon watches the sun come up that morning, slow at first but breaking the dark ranks of cloud until the snow of the sidewalk glistens like innocence. He dials for room service and orders breakfast for the both of them, feeling hungry, for once, before he falls back against the headboard.

"You could really use a shower." Miles says to him, quietly.

"You, too."


	15. Chapter 15

"Miles?"

The thin veil of darkness is pierced by a steady voice. A hand moves up to his shoulder and passes warmth through him.

"Miles, breakfast is here."

Only half of what Miles knows he could perceive is coming through. He can hear and sense the other presence beside him, but is unwilling to open his eyes. Ever sense of his is exhausted –more so than waking up, at a loss in hospital when the last thing he remembered was the colour blue. Tiredly, he lifts a hand to where he feels the point of contact –taking the wrist in a loose grasp when he opens his eyes at last.

The colours of daylight are too violent. The intensity of breakfast's smell is almost painful. Miles is having trouble processing each sense, but one at a time rather than all at once. He feels as if is too close to everything. That he lacks the brainspace to cope.

Waylon's name doesn't come to him very quickly, and for a second when he looks at the man he can still see only blue. But after a few seconds he manages to recognise Waylon as a person, and immediately, he softens.

"Was I asleep?"

Waylon nods. "I only left you for a second. You must be pretty tired." The man advances very slowly as if Miles is some animal he should live in fear of –when there's no doubt Miles can barely push himself to sitting, let alone hurt anyone. And judging by the ugly, purple marks on Waylon's neck that match his eight sorry fingers, he has done enough damage for one lifetime.

It hurts Miles to think of himself as helpless, his hands around Waylon's throat. It hurts him even more than Waylon's response is unmeasured kindness on the face of fear. When Waylon comes to sit on the edge of the mattress with a breakfast tray balanced on one arm, the feeling of guilt almost surpasses his hunger. Almost.

It's an awkward situation. It takes a few minutes for Miles to get himself into a sitting position once more, and even when he is, and the tray is in his lap, he has a moment of uncertainty that he can handle a fork. Fortunately, it's not a full English, and the various pastries can be picked up.

His mouth is dry, but he does eventually get words out. "Thanks." Is all Miles can manage, and even the sound of that knifes at his brain mercilessly. The word is still half-rendered to him, and he thinks it might be better for him to sleep away the winter if he doesn't start feeling better.

The meal is daunting –but what's even more terrifying is the shift in mattress when Waylon rises to go, and all of a sudden Miles doesn't trust himself to be alone. He'll start thinking, and more blood will come, and at least if Waylon is here he doesn't feel as if he's going to drown. Miles is too weak to grab a fistful of Waylon's shirt and doesn't know what to do, for a second, helpless once more.

"Stay." He says, desperately. Waylon turns around, worried, and it gives him no time to seem less pathetic than he has found himself. Miles swallows, and tries for a more certain voice despite how it hurts him to talk. "Don't go."

It strikes Waylon in a strange way. The man, usually brimming with warmth and sympathy and care seems actually conflicted.

"I just –I don't want to impose." He says, quietly. That part is just an excuse, and Miles can tell by how it falls out like a knee-jerk reaction. The next part isn't so easy to reach for and Waylon struggles, actively, to find it. "I don't want to give you the impression that we're...that I'm-"

Miles knows what he means right away. But he doesn't take it as rejection, outright. Frankly, he's too tired to think of things in more than monochrome.

"Just –just sit." Miles lets out, impatiently. His is far too exhausted to try and be charming –and even if he could, his charm is unlike that of Waylon's. Waylon has the charm of the defeated –but Miles still has his hat in the ring. He is still determined to win.

And for a second, considering his words, Waylon looks even more conflicted until he relents, caving to some unknown force, sitting back on the mattress. He doesn't look at Miles right away, and his hands wring tormentedly in his lap for a few minutes. It's not a great victory, but Miles will take it nonetheless.

Anything to keep him from thinking –because the thinking leads to bleeding and Miles has had enough to do with blood. Not that Waylon can save him –but he tried.

He has to turn his mind to something else to avoid that feeling again. The tightening in his stomach and then the feeling of acid burning his brain, paralysing his optic nerve and plunging his helpless vision into darkness.

The dry, ashen taste in his mouth is distraction enough, and he manages to lift the plain piece of toast to take a bite without too much trouble. He looks up, with heavy eyes, and feels bad at the sight of Waylon, sat on the bed despondently, staring into nothing.

"Are you eating?" He asks, with great difficulty. The ache from sound hasn't lessened –it still goes straight through his bones and aches him, but it is ignorable.

Waylon turns to him, still thin as a dime. "Mine's out in the kitchen."

"So go get it." Miles grumbles. "You're not my prisoner, Park. Go on."

Despite his want for intimacy, Miles can never quite stumble over the mouthful of Waylon's name. It doesn't belong to him –it seems almost too intimate. Even more so than a kiss. Maybe it's too close to whistleblower. Maybe it's because he only heard it coming from Lisa's mouth like some siren's song –_Waylon, Waylon, Waylon!_

Or maybe it's because it's easier to imagine him as an enemy than what he is to Miles now. Something too strange and close to put a name on, different than before, but fonder. He has only dared use the name once, and it had felt so wrong that he hasn't chanced it since.

Without a sound, Waylon departs. He doesn't argue with Miles –a sign of his mercy. He has full rights to but doesn't say a word and Miles is glad because he lacks the energy to fight back. A few seconds later, Waylon comes back in, limping dangerously, the contents of his own tray sliding about precariously. He smiles up at Miles reassuringly when he sets himself down, on the edge of the bed, so Miles can only feel the heat of his body by his leg.

"What's wrong with your foot?" Miles doesn't think he might be imposing when he asks it. He's only trying to make conversation.

"Ankle." Waylon says, imperceptibly. He remains staring down at the sheets.

"What?"

"It's my ankle." He says, a little louder. "It's just some nerve damage. I don't feel it anymore."

"The pain?"

"The foot."

"Oh." Miles nods, awkwardly, and drops the piece of toast back onto his plate. "That's rough. I'm sorry." There is a silence then. The kind that extends when a new situation presents itself. It's unlike Miles to be sympathetic. He has never been sorry in his whole life and right now he's sorry for Waylon, of all people, despite his weakness.

Waylon even seems suspicious of it when he leans forward and laughs, very nervously. "You don't have to be nice to me, you know."

"I know." Miles says, tersely. And then he sighs, "Don't make this difficult, Park, I'm too tired to argue with you."

That only seems to exacerbate the latent guilt present in Waylon, and he bites his lip nervously, nodding, already resigning to whatever Miles has to say. However tired Miles is –too much so to continue an old feud, it seems Waylon would do anything not to start.

"You're –you're right." Waylon says. "I'm not trying to be difficult –really, I'm not."

Miles can't fight him –so he groans at him, from his upright position on the bed. "Goddamnit it, Park, you can stand up for yourself. I mean, you don't have to always act so pitiful, y'know?" He doesn't say it with any particular malice –he doesn't have it in him to conjure any. Not that it makes any difference, Waylon inevitably reacts with a very small, shy smile.

"I'm starting to think you really _do_ want an argument." He says. It doesn't, for once, send Miles off on the defensive.

No –the opposite happens. He smiles. He opens, ever-so-slightly.

"It couldn't hurt my ego any." He says, sardonically. "I mean, you did have to sit me up and fucking _bottle-feed_ me."

Of course, Waylon doesn't bite at that. He wouldn't. Instead, he sides with Miles, of all people. "You've had a tough few days. It's no different to looking after one of my boys."

That sends Miles into uproariously laughter, despite how much pain it evidently causes him. "Yeah, because I aspire _so much_ to be likened to an _infant_." He says, in a very small voice, having coughed most of it away.

It has Waylon blushing apologetically. "I didn't mean it like that." He says, softly, his voice becoming harder with passion when he speaks again. "And I consider it a compliment to be compared to one of my boys."

Miles laughs at him again. "Is that a bit of backbone I detect?"

"You're very funny." Is Waylon's only retort, and it's a poor mockery of sarcasm.

"It's one of my better qualities."

Waylon waves a hand, blandly, despite the smile on his face. "You should eat your breakfast before it gets cold." And he turns back towards his own toast dispassionately, as if his happiness has some kind of restriction on it and he has to regulate it. Miles had actually been enjoying the conversation –just for once, and he's disappointed when Waylon doesn't reciprocate the feeling.

He makes some effort to eat something else. The croissants are cold, but fresh, and Miles takes a nervous bite of it, still trying to get back his sense of taste. He tries to make sense of things, and give himself a list of tasks for the day, instead of thinking about the millions of questions he has for Waylon.

It takes him all of ten minutes to finish all of the food he's been given, and as much as he itches for a coffee, he doesn't ask. Waylon had made a pitiful amount of progress with his own breakfast –a few bites take out of this and that furthering the sharp lines of his face and the unnatural thinness of his arms.

"Why don't you eat?" he says, when he's pushed his own tray down his lap. For a second, Waylon looks up at him blankly, and then his gaze drops down in the sheets. "Aren't you hungry?"

Waylon continues to stare at the sheets, forlornly. "Starved." He says, quietly. And then, as if realising the bigger situation, he shakes off the trance and takes Miles' tray off of his lap, before taking all of the food out.

Miles doesn't understand him –he doesn't ask, or strive to. Maybe he'll never know what the man's last name or favourite colour or best memory is. But he knows that they are both as terrified of being alone as they are being with anybody else, and that half the time the dark scares them so much that they try to scrub their own shadows off of the walls.

He watches Waylon go without a word and thinks, if he had the strength to, he'd intervene. Because it's not a product of nature that Waylon is this way –Miles has seen his photographs and as a young man he is unrecognisable. His face used to be full of colour and his eyes were brighter and he looked so vital. That place has broken him down meticulously and Waylon has been pulled out of the sack and had his bones glued together and stuck here, in the middle of New York, far from home.

So Miles lets the situation lie. He remains, sitting up, alone, aching for a cigarette, before feeling fatigue come for him again.

The last thing on his mind before he drowses, illuminated by soft daylight, is blue. The most human colour.

-

On waking, an hour later, Waylon helps him walk down the hall, to the bathroom.

He ignores the obvious allegory as Waylon near-hoists him. Why would he choose to lean on a man he knows is falling? Why would he let Waylon lead him when the man can barely walk on his own?

The blind are leading the blind, but he makes it nonetheless, breathless and sweating and beat to hell.

Waylon is there and gone in a second, like some friendly spectre, and he leaves Miles to toil alone in the bathroom.

It's fine by Miles. He struggles to get his shirt off, all stuck with sweat, and has to stop halfway through his pants because he's so out of breath. It frustrates him to hell, but he's too exhausted to feel anger. Every bit of anger ever felt by him or Billy has drained out of him and now he's sick of feeling useless. Four day of his life are gone –and that thing barely made an appearance.

Miles tries not to think about it. He slumps against the shower wall while the jet washes over him and tries to remember what his therapist tells him. He tries to think of his best memory. The happiest.

All that comes to him is the first time he ever saw himself published anywhere –in the local newspaper, when he was fifteen, writing about the high school cafeteria menu. It had been full of aphorisms and crummy metaphors, but God, when he saw his name at the bottom he had never been so proud of himself. His dad had smiled, and that was all he'd expected, really. But it was enough. The feeling had been not been what he'd fallen in love with, though –it was that his article changed something.

They stopped serving whatever it was –chow mein, or some other food, because it didn't meet regulation, and that's what Miles loved, more than anything. The feeling of power, despite himself, and his youth and his inexperience. The power to change things –and for the better.

In retrospect, he feels foolish thinking about it. God, he'd raved about it so much at home that his father even kept the clippings in his office, and last time he went home, heart-broken, in need of comfort, seeing it still stuck to the wall, among all of his other published work reminded him of what he had always been striving for but had momentarily forgotten.

That's what makes him smile, after days in darkness. Maybe Miles isn't a good man, or a sensitive man. But at least he's driven.

It takes him some time to attempt to lean up, kneeling shakily, to reach the bottle of shampoo. Most days he never bothers with conditioner, so used to being in a hurry he never thinks to make himself look good. Only clean. It washes in and out of his hair with ease and he lets the soap trails down his front as he sits.

He watches the water wash down the drain, taking away all of his sins.

And then he remembers –invasive, the memory pushes to the front of his mind and he can see red, bloody water circling the shower drain and the panic of the nurses outside the door. Miles had felt so faint –he could feel his life slipping dangerously out of reach and when things become their softest the blood stopped coming. Not because he didn't have more to bleed, but because he could hear the hiss of static, and then things started to get clearer.

He had wanted to die, to get back to the ground and the worms and the darkness, and the walrider had stopped him.

Now the soap down his front is rosy and more blood is wetting Miles' face. It burns in his brain like an acidic lobotomy and for a second his vision boils until things align and he can see the blood on the back of his hand when he pulls it away.

Does he belong to that thing now? Is he merely some host –like a child's plaything?

No. Miles won't accept it. _He_ won. He is the master of his own destiny and he can control that thing. He will control it. It's his fucking story and it will go the way he wants it to –or it will end.

Trying to rise, despite himself, he leans heavy against the shower wall and pulls himself toward the sink, soaking the tiled floor. He stares at his own reflection, holding his whole body up by his arms.

He can control it, this time. He can.

Miles stares at his reflection and thinks hard about the glass –readying himself for the hiss of the static in his eyes and in his ears, ready to see the smoky black of it's presence. Ready to fight it, because he isn't ready to lay down and become a toy for the swarm to inherit. If Billy didn't let that thing win then Miles sure as hell won't.

The tendons in his hands feel as if they'll split from the force with which he's holding the basin. He looks up, feeling the strain within him, trying to access the part of his brain where he can see molecules and the colour of Waylon's soul all at once. Breaking point is visible, and he can almost feel it tearing him apart.

More of his blood burns in his brain and wets the sink in droplets, but Miles doesn't relent -he won't, he can't. Not until he can control it. Pain wells up in waves and he thinks he's going to burst into flames.

The pain reaches it's peak when he begins to hear the static, very quietly, in the back of his mind like angels whispering to eachother and for a second he thinks he has died and found some kind of heaven because there's so no way he's alive to feel this sensation –every atom that makes him up being ripped apart –the static barely there and all Miles can do is hold onto the sink when he sees the glass in the mirror crack, suddenly.

And then he sees nothing at all.

-

(_Why would you choose to lean on a falling man?_

Because he can still catch you. )

-

Tinnitus rings out in his ears like there has been some terrible explosion.

The lights are white and milky, and for a few moments he feels nothing but high-pitched ringing and peace, like holding his ears underwater. As he emerges, sounds become closer to him, and things become painfully detailed, and then his senses are overwhelmed by the shouting and the shaking.

The static is gone from his head –and instead it feels empty and weightless. He has no trouble opening his eyes, disturbed to hear the desperate cry above him when he feels nothing but peace.

It's Waylon –screaming for him. Begging him to wake.

And the moment Waylon sees that his eyes are open, and that he is some semblance of conscious, the man gives him a good, hard shake by the shoulders.

"Half an hour. That's how long I left you for." He shakes him again, tears beginning to form in his eyes. "I thought you'd tried to _die_! I thought that you'd –that _you'd_..." Miles hasn't a clue what to do. He feels so strangely at peace, and it unable to offer any words, let alone ones of comfort to Waylon, who is nearly hysterical. "When I heard a noise, I knocked and knocked and you didn't answer and I thought that you'd left me here –_jesus, Miles_..."

Miles still has no clue what to do or say. He still feels too weak to do much of anything, and is oddly grateful when Waylon pulls him into a sitting position with this desperate hug.

He reasons to himself that he's just grateful for being sat up, that's all. None of it has anything to do with the sudden thrill of his nerves, and how comforted he feels when Waylon keeps him there, in an embrace, for a few seconds long to be labelled 'innocuous care'. No, Miles is only glad that he's being sat up –he doesn't care at all for the softness of Waylon or the scent of paper on him, clean and comforting.

"I'm sorry." He says, absently, staring at the shower in front of him. There are still some traces of his blood at the bottom of the tub, and when his eyes go to the sink, he can see blood all over ceramic.

The mirror is shattered, but remains in it's frame, and when he leans forward he can see a million Waylons casting their reflection right into his eyes.

"What did you do?" Waylon draws back and looks him, right into the eyes rather than around them. There is nervousness in his gaze. When it comes down to it, Miles thinks, Waylon is not as soft as he would have people believe. There's no way he could remain soft to the things he's seen. "There's so much blood –I really thought..."

"I'm okay." He says, uselessly. "Nothing broke but my dignity." Waylon draws back at that, almost disgusted, and that's when Miles knows that he owes the other man an explanation, at the very least. "I didn't mean to scare you or anything, Park-"

"Well, you _did_!" Waylon shoves him for that. He's usually so docile that seeing any bit of malice in him is jarring to Miles. Alarming, almost, but it never lasts for very long and then Waylon's eyes are all lit up with tears again. "You scared me to_ death_, Miles. For God's sake-..."

What can Miles say? "I'm sorry." He offers again, this time with sincerity. "I –I wasn't trying to kill myself. I wasn't gonna do that. It's alright." It doesn't seem to register to Waylon at first. As if he doesn't dare to believe –but Miles can respect that. He knows the danger of belief. "I was –I was trying to -to see if I could control it. If I could get to it."

Waylon draws back further then, afraid, sniffing. He shakes his head, and swallows before he can speak. "_What?"_

There's no explanation he can give that will make it sound less foolish. Yet, to Miles, everything still makes perfect, clean sense. "I don't want to be some –some plaything. And I could –I could control it, this time-"

Waylon is staring at him with terrified. "You can't control it." He says, in a quick whisper. "Nobody can. You already lost enough of your life to it."

Shakily, Miles pulls himself forward and coughs. "I did control it. You _saw_ me."

"Once." Waylon says, almost insistently. He takes a few staggered breaths and looks helplessly at Miles. "I've seen what it can do. And that_ thing_ is too powerful to be contained-"

"So what do you want me to _do_?" Miles falls back. He feels something like anger beginning to spark in him, but there is nothing left to burn. All of his bridges remain as ash. "You want me to _wait _until it comes _back_?"

It does nothing but upset Waylon so more. He breathes out a very shaky sigh and turns his head away, too late to hide that he's already crying a little. "I don't want to talk about this." He says, quietly. "I'm just –just glad that you're okay."

Without saying another word, Waylon helps him into sitting up, and gets him a towel. He leaves Miles to dry off, and despite his worry, limps off down the hall again, likely too panicked to want to stay. Miles is still disorientated, but finds himself strong enough to dress in one of the hotel bathrobes and it for a few minutes in contemplation.

Waylon wasn't wrong –there is an alarming amount of blood. Smeared on the floor, in large, gaudy drops in the sink, turning the residual shower water rosy –on Miles torso until it was wiped off. He doesn't feel that much worse for wear –maybe more of a headache, but otherwise sound enough. It's likely he'll need Waylon to help him walk back to the kitchen, but he realises now that Waylon had found him blood and naked, so there's really no shame left for him to feel.

He leaves asking for a few minutes –beginning to feel guilt knowing at him. It wasn't intention to upset Waylon. He never considered his own self-preservation would be of any interest to somebody else. It seems like a lot of pressure.

Ultimately, Waylon doesn't mind helping him along to the kitchen. And Miles is sort of glad that he has Waylon, after all. He wouldn't have wanted to suffer this alone.

He orders two meals on the hotel phone, knowing that Waylon will forget or simply neglect his own hunger, and with it some coffee. After, he hauls himself up the kitchen table and reads his emails, trying to test the air between the two of them as Waylon continues to type, in his own world.

"What are you writing?"

Waylon seems genuinely surprised by the question, rubbing his temple tiredly. "Just about what's happened to me. My therapist thinks it's working."

"Oh." Miles nods, absently. "Are you writing about what happened there-"

"After." Waylon looks up, and sighs, his voice full of honestly. "I don't want to think about before." For a second, he sits back and seems to review the document in front of him, before looking up again at Miles. "It's not very good, though. I'm no writer."

"Don't be so dramatic." Miles frowns. "I'm sure it's cohesive."

That makes Waylon laugh, even if he doesn't really mean it. "I don't mind if it isn't. I'm not writing it for people to read."

"That must be pretty liberating."

"How so?" Waylon pauses at that even more, and looks up. His gaze on Miles has softened considerably. Then again, he supposes that seeing him alive is much more forgivable than seeing him dead. And for once, Miles finds it tolerable to be looked at.

"You don't have to worry about readers." Miles says, quietly. He shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I'm not much of a writer, either." It's left at that for a few minutes. He seems to have nothing to else to say on the matter and merely settles on silence for a few minutes –but the comfortable kind. There's no pressure to make conversation until the door goes, and Miles looks up apologetically. "Could you answer that?"

Waylon only nods in reply.

He rises, shakily, and brings in the food without comment, graciously setting Miles' down before him. No questions are asked –so none are answered. They eat in silence –Miles is starving from the lacklustre breakfast and finishes quickly. He doesn't want to pressure Waylon into the same and pulls himself over to the couch where he watches television until exhaustion finally claims him.

Waylon is left alone again.

He remains writing for a little longer at the table, but turns his attention to dinner soon after. He can't eat much of it, but is glad that he's eaten anything. After, he texts Lisa that he loves her, and that he misses her. And then, when he feels worn out enough from the turbulence of the day, he gets up, and begins to limp down the hall to his bedroom.

In his mind, he has finally resigned to the idea of getting something to help him walk. There's no sense in suffering more.

As he reaches his door, a voice startles him, and he turns around to see Miles leaning over the side of the sofa, calling out to him.

"Are you going to sleep?"

Waylon nods.

"Oh." He pauses and listens to Miles turning back around. "Night, then." That's all that's said next. Maybe Waylon imagines the tone of disappointment in Miles' voice, or maybe it's real –that doesn't matter. Waylon still continues to limp down the hall and into bed, folding back the sheets and feeling oddly lonely again.

Lord, he misses Lisa. He hates to sleep alone.

Nightmares come and go –less violent than some nights, but there nonetheless, and he wakes a few times, crying out, twitching in fear. The moment he realises where he is, he's okay, and for a few moments he lies on his side and considers waking Lisa just to hear her voice. Just to ask her how the mundane, boring things in her day so he can hear her speak.

But Waylon doesn't want to disturb her. He wishes her peace.

No, instead, he limps the long walk back up the hall and finds Miles, still sleeping on the sofa. He watches television on the opposite couch for a while, just to feel like he isn't alone, and eventually that's how he falls asleep, curled up awkwardly.

But he sleeps anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

The next day doesn't come any gentler. It arrives just to spite Waylon –suddenly, and without warning.

He wakes in a jolt of panic, noise ringing out in his ears and panicking him for all of a few seconds. That's before he realises that there's no danger. Nothing but snow outside –and yells and taxis, and when he comes to his senses, the dull pain in his joint from sleeping in such an awkward position, he realises that it's not God or some terrible happening that had woken him, but his phone.

The noise of it vibrating on the hardwood coffee table goes right through his skull. He wonders, briefly, sitting up, if the noise has woken Miles, but when he looks over to where the man had been last night, he's gone.

He tries not to think about it. There are more pressing matters at hand, and what with yesterday's incident in the bathroom, he prefers not to think about Miles alone because it somehow always devolves into dread, and worry.

The man is capable, Waylon reminds himself. It isn't his place to be concerned.

The phone is close to ringing out by the time he manages to lean forward, swiping the screen as he leans back, sore from the night's sleep, but glad for any respite at all. His voice isn't remotely ready for speaking, but he presses anyway, coughing out quietly before hearing his mouth make the word, "Hello?"

There's only ever one person on the end of his line. And he wouldn't like it any other way.

"Morning, sleepy." Is what Lisa opens with, and her voice sounds like the way sunlight feels. The warmth of it goes straight to him, and immediately he feels better, and clearer of the mind, just to hear it. "You must have been out cold. I did try to call you earlier, but it rang out."

"I must have slept through it." He says, quietly. "But I did sleep."

That seems to please Lisa –and Waylon wants nothing more. He hears the sharp edge of hope in her voice when she asks, "Any dreams?"

And he hates to disappoint her. He hates to be seen at his weakest, so he does what he can. He lies. "No dreams." He tells her, assuringly. "But I miss you, in bed."

That gives her momentary pause. It isn't Waylon's intention to make her feel guilty or sympathetic with the words, and if it were anybody else on the end of the line, that's what would inevitably happen. But Lisa isn't as soft as Waylon on the exterior.

"I'd give anything to have you back here. You know that." She is serious for a moment –the exact moment he needs her to be, before she laughs, "The heating is broken and you're like a furnace."

The levity is lost on him –all he can think about are the implications of what she's saying. "Can't you have somebody come over to fix it? I don't want you or the boys getting pneumonia or colds over something like that."

Lisa only laughs at him for that. Not that he minds in the least –he'd gladly give up any other sense to hear her laugh more often.

"You're such a worrier, you know that?" She pauses, for a moment, and then assures him. "And I love that about you. But I'm the one who should be worrying about you." It's then her voice goes harder, and Waylon knows what she's going to ask before she even draws breath.

Her playful tone is very hard to find when she speaks again. "You remember what you promised me –right, Way? That you'd-"

"I remember." He says. The thought of Miles is knowing at his brain, demanding space, but Miles is a whole other dizzy topic that he'd rather not mix with Lisa. The two of them do not coexist peacefully in his mind. "And I won't-...whatever happens, I'm coming home to you."

"I trust you." She takes him at his word. "I just like to know that you're safe. I worry just as much about you."

Waylon smiles. "You really don't have to." He tells her. "My therapist says that I'm making good progress. And I feel better, Leese –I really do."

It feels rehearsed to say aloud. This same mantra has infected all that he does –he thinks about it in the shower, art every meal, when he takes his pills, when he looks at photographs –everything is okay. He's getting better—and soon he'll be fixed.

Lisa doesn't object. Even if she doesn't believe him, she gives her support. "I'm so proud of you." She tells him. "And I'm so glad to hear that you're doing good."

"What about you?" Instinctively, Waylon inverts the focus of the conversation. Not because he has much at all to hide, but because Lisa's voice is lovely and he likes to listen. "Aside from the heater, are things alright? How are the boys?"

"Better." She sounds happy to say it. "It made them so happy to be able to come see you. And I wanted to tell you –I'm going for a scan today."

For a moment, Waylon doesn't say anything. What is there to say? All he can feel is a sudden spike of guilt gripping him –he shouldn't be away from her. He has never been away when she has needed him before. He feels a failure.

Lisa doesn't make him talk. "I'm going to call you after –and I can send you the pictures. I'm just sorry that you can't be there."

Like issuing an automated response, he hears himself say, "That's okay." Almost immediately. "You don't have to be sorry."

She sighs. "I know this isn't fair, Way. But you'll be home, soon. It's only one little thing." Even if he still feels lonely, or guilty, her voice is so sweet and sincere he could believe anything said. "You just focus on yourself for a while. Maybe –maybe think about where you want to move to when you come home."

This is less familiar territory. Waylon's view of the future is purposefully vague, but deciding on the details of making it a reality scare him. He's convinced that the future is going to be wonderful –just as much as he's convinced he's never going to get any better.

"I'll do that." He says, regardless. It might make him of some use to her at least.

After a small pause, Lisa says, "Are you sure that you're okay? Nothing you want to talk to me about?"

There are a thousand things Waylon wants to talk about. He wants to hear every mundane detail of her day –every single thing that James has said to her over breakfast, if she thinks of him, if she knows how afraid he is, if she knows that he still feels broken and sick and in need of help. He wants her to know that every minute she spends with him in New York redeems the torture of feeling like a prisoner when he feels irrelevant and far away and paranoid that a nice-looking guy at the grocery store will smile at her and she'll forget all about him.

But when he opens his mouth, he can only say one thing. "Nothing that I can think of." He says. "You just make sure to call me, alright?"

Lisa knows him better than to believe him, but she also knows better than to pry. "Alright." She says, quietly. "I'm going to bring the boys just as soon as I can. You look after yourself in the meanwhile, though, alright?"

"I will."

"And remember that we love you. Before you know it, you'll be back home. Alright?"

Lisa likes that word._ Alright_. She is almost as good as he is at using it like some soft bandage. They both hold out the futile belief that if they say it's alright, any damage done won't hurt so badly.

"Alright, Leese." He says. "I love you, too."

For some reason, he feels that the conversation has only made him feel more depressed, and alone. It has only served to remind him that he can't do the things he wants and he's being no use to anybody here, stranded where he knows nobody and can do nothing. When Lisa hangs up he wonders what the point of anything is –he's no husband to Lisa here, no father to the boys here, no use to anybody at all.

And the thing about this type of sadness is that it is always present. He has felt it for so long that whenever he feels anything else –relief or panic or happiness, he thinks he must simply be repressing the sadness –just for a little while. The sadness makes him apathetic –it robs him of the feeling of true melancholy. No sorrow comes to life in him –but the ever-presence of what's already there gets heavier.

It's times like this he thinks he has always felt this way. That he was always thought about killing himself, and therein is the worst part of the sadness: it convinces him that he has never felt, or will feel, anything else ever again.

It is blackness –a tunnel so long that no light or scrap of sky dare squeak through. And he feels he has been blind for so long that he needs the darkness –the sadness. Not like he needs love or sunlight, but the way he needs oxygen.

To survive.

Now he can't even remember what it was like to live without it. He doesn't recognise the person he used to be, and feels he is looking at an imposter when he stares at family photographs. There, in the frame, is the man that Lisa fell in love with. It's just a shame he died so young.

Waylon won't kill himself. He lacks the constitution for suicide –and Miles is right. There's still so much left to do. And even if there isn't –he'll find something. He owes that much to Lisa. (And that much more to Miles, too.)

He rests his face in his hands, pushing down with the hell do that he can plunge his sight into voidlike black, and remains like that for a very long time. The rest of the world passes him by as he breathes, deeply, reciting to himself the reasons he's here and all the progress he's made and that Lisa loves him –she loves him and that's all that matters.

"Park?"

The voice pulls him from the darkness, and Waylon's hands drop as he turns his head, slowly. Miles is standing in the door, white as a sheet, his hair wet and his face dark with stubble. It only takes a second to asses that he's been swimming from the faint smell of chlorine on him and the way he's shivering, a little.

As he comes towards the chair, he says, "What's wrong?"And sounds so honest and invested –like he really cares, that Waylon lets himself believe Miles could rescue him and fix this.

"I'm just-..." God, has his voice always been so tiny? He even sounds broken. With a shuddering sigh, he shakes his head. "I just feel low." Eventually, he finds those words, unwilling to divulge more in the face of this childish fear that Miles will laugh at him.

But Miles is quiet, for once, so he knows he has to go on.

"I'm trying to keep myself busy –because I don't want to think about...about _that_. But I'm not interested in anything anymore. I can't see Lisa –or the boys." He doesn't look at Miles when he talks –too ashamed of what he thinks is his own weakness. Too unwilling to face the contradiction before him –that he'd rather save Miles' life than try to live his own.

Miles comes around so that he's in front of Waylon. "You should try getting out." He says, not unkindly, but with the natural sharpness that his voice always keeps.

It's then Waylon looks up, helplessly, wondering if Miles, of all people, has an answer for him. "And go where?" He sighs. "I just want to go home."

This kind of desperation doesn't just happen. Miles seems to hear it in his tone and see it on the desperate misery of his face. He comes to sit down by Waylon, still shivering, and look at him with patience, for once. "What happened?" He asks. "Was it dreams?"

"No." Waylon murmurs. "Lisa called. And I miss her." He leans his head back and sighs. "And I'm supposed to be_ with_ her. I –I have never missed _anything_ with her." The misery in him gets worse –different from the sadness. Closer, in fact, to anger. It isn't fair. "I have _never_ missed a single thing. I made _sure_ of it. Every –every dinner, every scan, every anti-natal class, every milestone..." Waylon shakes his head.

"So what?" Miles looks at him, dully. "You want a medal for not being a shitty guy?"

"It's not like that." He sits himself up, because he wants a chance to explain. Part of him suspects that putting this awful feeling of uselessness and anxiety into words, and making it known, will help him to fight it. Because right now, how can he fight what he does not recognise? "I know I should be proud that she's...that she's doing well without me." He sighs. "But I just keep thinking that she doesn't need me. That I'm just-..."

Looking at him intently, Miles frowns. "Of course she doesn't _need _you –she's a fucking adult." It's only afterwards he seems to realise how bitter his words sound and, too late to take things back, he tries to laugh apologetically. "C'mon, Park. It's a raw deal, but I'm sure she's not going anywhere soon."

Numb, Waylon shrugs. "I don't know." He says, exasperatedly. "I think if she did want to leave me, I wouldn't fight her. Like, if I knew she would be happier by herself, I'd just-..." When his head lifts a little, there are tears starting to form in his eyes –not just from the idea of it, but from everything. "I wouldn't hate her. I_ couldn't_. Not a _bit_."

Miles doesn't know quite what to say. It stirs him –to see Waylon like this because he wants to see Waylon beat this and survive and he wants to see him happy. When he used the walrider to save him, it wasn't to prolong the inevitable. It was so that Waylon could live. And while he feels sorry for Waylon, and angry at him for his resignation, there is something else, too.

Something like envy, and he tells himself that it's because he doesn't have the luxury of a family, or a support system, but really he knows it has nothing to do with Waylon's sons or even support, but everything to do with Lisa, and the claim she has.

Slowly, he comes to stand in front of Waylon and gives him a shove on the shoulder, limp and gentle. But when Waylon remains unresponsive, head still bowed in apathy, Miles knows that he needs a firmer hand.

"Get up." He says, authority finding itself naturally in his voice. When Waylon doesn't move he repeats himself, but louder, and colder. "I said get up, Park. C'mon."

It takes a little while for Waylon to even look up at him, much less stand, but Waylon's glance is so much worse than his compliance –his face is white and his eyes are trembling and Miles can practically taste the saltwater blue of his soul.

"Get your coat." He says, after a while, stuffing his fits into his pocket and coming to walk around the coffee table. "I haven't seen you leave this place in at least a week."

Waylon remain very quiet about it. He doesn't make a move for his coat. He simply says, "Where are we going?"

That gives Miles momentary pause, and he turns, cocking his head a little, to study Waylon. The man seems so fragile, and so prematurely aged. "Does it _matter _where we're going? Get your coat."

If Waylon is resistant to the idea, he isn't very good at putting up much of a fight. "I can't walk for long. My ankle seizes up."

"We can sit down when you need to."

Miles is standing at the door now, with his overcoat on, and his hands still in his pockets, looking towards Waylon. The man is a mess, barely ready for the day, standing in the clothes he had fallen asleep in and looking every bit as sad and rumpled as them. It would take much more for Waylon to give up, and he remains waiting, his hair still wet from the pool.

"C'mon on, then. I want to be out of here before my next birthday, y'know."

He grins at Waylon –and while Waylon looks up at him, the man doesn't outwardly smile back. He shuffles towards his room, and when he emerges, a few minutes later, he's dressed for the season, scarf, gloves and all.

They walk in silence down the hall, and then in silence down the stairs, and out into the snow. Miles doesn't mind not making conversation –he even resists complaining about the chill of the wind. For a very long time they wander out, Miles leading, taking them the route he walks to the church. They don't make it nearly all the way, of course –Waylon having to sit down a few times.

The third time he does, bitter with cold, Miles leaves him for a few minutes to wander into a starbucks and buy coffee. It's much too hot, but sweet enough, and it's what convinces Waylon to walk on, back the way them came, retracing their old footsteps on the snowy sidewalk.

At some point, when they're walking side-by-side, one of Waylon's hands drops by his side, and for just a second Miles feels the thrill of the man's warm hand brush against his.

Of course Waylon doesn't mention it. As they approach the hotel, he says, "Thanks, Miles."

But he never says what he is thankful for.

-

Later, much later, after Waylon has had a long aside on his phone with Lisa, he comes out of his room to get his dinner at the door, and nearly walk right by Miles, who is sitting down on the sofa.

Miles catches him with a tap on the wrist, and says, "I was gonna watch a movie, if you'd like."

The suggestion stays between them for a few minutes, oddly intimate, and entirely uncharted waters. Miles is aware that Waylon probably has things to do, and he's still probably wary of Miles and god knows that Lisa's company is so much more prized than his. Yet, after a few seconds of delineation, Waylon yields, and sits.

"What did you have in mind?"

Miles doesn't want to give away with his voice that he's glad –surprised, too, but glad, that Waylon is sitting by him. He shrugs, distantly, and says, "I was probably just going to search for 'A fistful of dollars' or something, but I get if that's not your thing."

Waylon considers it for a second. "That's the cowboy movie, right?"

"Well." Miles shrugs. "It's a _western_." And then, suddenly hearing the dwindling enthusiasm in Waylon's tone, he waves a hand. "Or we could watch something else. What do you like, anyway? Star wars?"

At his dismissive tone, Waylon doesn't shrink away. He gives a nervous laugh, and says, "I guess we could compromise, and watch the third 'Back To the Future'."

That hangs the air for a few seconds, and then Miles swallows and says, very slowly. "I don't really get how that's a compromise."

He's looking at Waylon, a little lost, and Waylon is returning his gaze, looking at Miles like he's said something obviously wrong. "Well, because –because the third one is like a western."

Miles frowns. "It is?" He leans back and nods. "Alright. I never saw it, so-"

"You never saw the last one?" That seems to excite Waylon an awful lot. He sits forward and looks intent –his face still looks white and gaunt, but his eyes are lit up and for once he looks like he might actually have some warmth to him. "I mean, it's certainly not as good as the others, but you should at _least _watch it."

"Alright," Miles says, suppressing a laugh. "Your call, Park."

Of course he wants to encourage the enthusiasm, and humours Waylon when he emerges from his room with the boxset –of all things, putting on the film and sitting back down next to Miles. It's not exactly intimate –Waylon is still in the middle of eating dinner, and he has a good go at finishing half of it.

But when dinner is gone and they're just sitting there, next to eachother, Miles thinks that even if it's not intimate for Waylon at all –even if the man views Miles as nothing but a bug on his windshield, at least he's not crying anymore.

At some point, when the movie is at a lull, he leans softly towards Waylon –pulled back enough that the gesture itself is innocuous, and he says, "You feeling better?"

Waylon doesn't look at him in reply. His eyes shine with the television's reflection, and it does not hint at sadness or relief. Not even his tone gives anything away when says, "I think so."

It's some improvement. Miles doesn't ask anything after that, aware that Waylon's head is probably cloudy with thoughts of Lisa and his children, and there's no room for an interloper –which is what Miles is. He resists falling asleep on Waylon for fear of the message it would give. They are nothing but survivors –they merely happen to be occupying the same, last scrap of land.

And when the movie keeps playing and Miles has zoned out entirely, he has to train himself into indifference when Waylon falls into his shoulder, asleep, exhausted by his own misery, most likely.

Miles would like nothing more than to stay there, like that, but it feels cheap to him. Waylon isn't giving him affection –he's just asleep. It doesn't mean that Miles can't put a hand in the other man's hair and think about how long it's been since he was happy –since somebody else made him happy. This isn't it, but it's close enough, so for a few minutes he stays like that, and then he extricates himself gently, setting Waylon down so that he's lying on his side.

His own disillusionment with the world isn't going to go away if Waylon talks to him, or likes him, or kisses him. Miles knows that now –and despite his desire to cling to Waylon –to never be alone again, he knows he has to afford the man space, and time.

So he goes to bed alone, down the darkening hall and into the sheets. It takes a few minutes for him to begin to feel sleepy, but after a while, he does, and he thinks nothing more of anything.

-

"You've missed our last few sessions, Miles."

There's some snow wetting the hem of his therapists' trousers. It's what Miles is staring at as the session opens. He doesn't have much to say today. The only real thing on his mind is the walrider, and that hardly motivates him to talk.

"I've been sick." He explains, quietly. The therapist isn't buying it –but that's doesn't matter, because it's irrelevant to Miles if he believes it or not.

"I'm sorry to hear that." The man says. "But this time if yours to do what you wish with. If you really feel our time is of no benefit to you, you're not obligated to attend."

The implication of the words makes Miles uncomfortable. It's not that simple –things rarely are, and he wants to argue against it. But, truthfully, he's not biter enough to think of anything to say. All of the anger that his therapist saw him with in their last session is gone. Miles sits before him, calm baptismal water.

"I really was sick." Miles repeats himself, awkwardly. "But I managed to –I did what you told me to. I –uh, talked to somebody"

The therapist seems to brighten at that. He nods supportively, his usually stoic expression turning to one of very slight pride. He probably never imagined Miles taking his advice –or making any progress at all. "That's good, Miles. I'm glad to hear that."

What Miles doesn't mention is that he hasn't been doing it to make his therapist happy, or settle some deep need within himself. No, it wasn't that simple.

"How did that make you feel?" The therapist gestures a hand. "Did you find that it helped to clear your head? Or perhaps you feel it didn't benefit you at all?"

One shoulder shrugs itself. Miles can't pick just one conversation he has shared with Waylon to exemplify. They are all inexplicably linked, and they are constantly evolving. He doesn't bare his soul to Waylon, he doesn't need to. It almost feels better to witness Waylon's own dark days –they serve as a reminder that this is what the process looks like, and when he feels down, it doesn't mean he has failed.

"It was-..." With difficulty, Miles tries to locate the right words. "Comforting, I guess. Like –I felt useful, y'know?" The conversations suddenly seem so private. He suddenly thinks that his therapist wouldn't understand, and he dismisses the topic. "It was –it was dumb. I don't know."

At his words, the therapist starts writing again. Of course, Miles can read upside down well, and he can read shorthand, but both at once is difficult so he has given up deciphering the words. The therapist pretends that he doesn't see Miles trying to read, though, and flashes him a small smile like they're some kind of friends.

"That's excellent, Miles. Can I ask who you decided to speak with –and was this by telephone, or in the flesh, or by email?"

It feels strange to say. "Park –Waylon." He makes the correction quickly, despite how strange the name feels to him. It still isn't his to say. "I just talked to him a few times."

_(But why would he choose to lean on a falling man?)_

It gives the therapist pause. He frowns, and looks up, very slowly, as if being careful not to startle Miles. It's then that Miles knows something awful is about to be said and he braces himself for it, because he knows it's going to hurt.

The therapist sighs a little. "I don't wish to undermine your efforts, Miles. I'm very glad that you're building a new relationship with Mister Park. But it concerns me that-"

Miles feels his throat tighten. He coughs, and says, "But I did what you told me to. You can't just –_change _the terms like that."

The therapist doesn't look uncomfortable at all. He says, "As I said, I'm not undermining your efforts _at all_. But I was hoping for you to kindle an interpersonal relationship that would _support _you –and Mister Park is in no position to support other people."

Miles hates the words. He hates the way they're said –and he hates that he cares more about what the therapist is accusing Waylon of being than whatever is said against himself. Is this what everybody is thinking? Behind all of the nice smiles and the guise of 'help' they're just rounding up the ones they call crazy and locking them in a pen together, for the time being?

"So –so what the hell are you saying?" Miles coughs out, angrily, after a few seconds, the calm of the water replacing by waves snapping at his ankles tenaciously.

The therapist remains implacable, as usual, and merely says, "I'm just expressing my concern over how much time you're spending with Mister Park. Granted, it's an inevitability of the rooming situation. I'm not denying that your time with him won't feel comforting from time to time –but I fear that your influence on one another may lead to regression or shared delusions often stimulated by co-dependency."

Miles knows what that means. He hears the word –_delusion –regression –dependency_. It's all synonymous with the belief that he and Waylon are about to crack. That their ostensible sanity if only a farce and it wouldn't take much to peel away the paint and reveal the madness beneath when it's not like that at all. The madness rises to the top and they will send the rest of their lives trying to bury it again –the task made even harder by comments like that.

And he hates every second of it. Of being condescended to. Of being told that he's no good for Waylon when they have saved eachother from hells that nobody else can imagine.

He wants to scream –what the hell o you know? But the man has degrees and he can use his language and power to make Miles' reflection in the mirror scare him. He has to pick his battles –and this one will inevitably be uphill. For now, he just nods, staring at the floor.

"So –you don't want me to talk to him?" Is what he asks, in his most level voice.

The therapist shifts, knowing no answer he gives will be correct. "You can talk to who you please, Miles. I simply wouldn't recommend that he be part of your support network. That's all."

What Miles hears is '_Waylon is forbidden'_.

What Miles says is, "Alright."

He walks out of the room right then and there –with no parting words for his therapist. He walks down the bright, widening corridor of the hotel and down the flights of stairs and out into the snow, without his jacket. Just to get out. Just to get away from his therapist.

In a sense, he is prolonging the inevitable. Because he already knows what he's going to do.

Later, he returns, banging loudly on the door to 103, shivering in his shirt, delirious with cold. He keeps on knocking, trying to rally himself because Miles is terrified of himself and what he's about to do. Tingles spike his legs down and up and his heart boils in his chest when he hears the off-kilter beat of Waylon's limp as he approaches the door, softly calling out, "Just a second."

His hands are shaking by his sides when he hears the handle go down –and then Waylon is at the door, his face neutral at first –but turning to bemused when he sees Miles.

He goes to ask something –probably about where Miles' key is or what he's doing, but it never gets asked.

Miles doesn't want to hear it. He grabs a fistful of Waylon's shirt, and for a second the smaller man looks convinced he's about to get a beating. But Miles doesn't hit him. He tugs the shirt closer with the curl of his wrist.

And he kisses him.


	17. Chapter 17

So Miles kisses him.

Clear as water, bright as snow, pulling him out into the hall where anybody could see and the shock of it is so violent that every joint in Waylon's body sizes up. He has no strength to fight back, no resolve left to argue with, and no motivation to shy away from the touch. The shock runs through him like electricity and it fires between them with such beautiful reciprocity that he doesn't give a second thought to relaxing his body.

He doesn't even give a third to deepening the kiss.

It is worlds different from the tender and almost chaste affection Lisa would give him in public, and different in type to the kind of animalistic fervour he's used to in private.

But here Miles is –his eyes shut, his hand still gripping Waylon's shirt tight and holding him there, erratic with passion, and he _wants _Waylon there. He has _chosen_ him –and Waylon doesn't question his instinct to close his own eyes, to enjoy the sensation and hold back the guilt that has started in gentle eddies on the surface of a lake but will rise to dark, swollen waves.

For a few seconds, Waylon feels nothing but tenderness. His thoughts are broken into little pieces –too small to put back together again and Miles has done this to him –Miles, holding him with such reverent passion, his other hand pressed against Waylon's upper-back and holding him there.

And as gorgeous as it feels, it cannot last forever and soon Miles is pulling back, his chest heaving from a lack of air, his eyes bright and focused with determination. There's no explanation or apology. He looks at Waylon for half a second longer, as if awaiting a response. But what the hell does Waylon do? His knee-jerk reaction urges him to continue –his id screaming for more pleasure, for that feeling of utter contentment to return, but his superego is burning Lisa's name onto his brain and making him dizzy with guilt.

It's not as if he gets to think about it for very long at all –Miles steps closer to him and is about to lean in once more, and for a second Waylon is paralysed by his own inner-conflict.

But as usual, his supergo wins out, and he pushes Miles away, expecting sensational warmth when his hand forces away against Miles' chest. It's startlingly cold and he pulls away, the shock sobering him.

It's then he notices the heat of his face –most likely manifesting itself as a violent blush. He's breathing violently, taking in great lungfuls of air, suddenly unable to look up and face the evidence before him.

It's no crime that Miles kissed him. No, the crime is that he kissed back. It had seemed so easy –and Waylon could do it again right now.

Miles doesn't seem to take the hint. He tucks a finger under Waylon's chin and it's so disarming that's it's terrifying –and Waylon finds he can't even convince himself into stepping back. Without lifting his head, hot with shame, he whispers, "_Miles_."

That gives Miles pause. His hands are frighteningly cold, and Waylon can see him shivering when he leans down, just a little, so that they are more or less eye-level.

For a long time Waylon stares at the floor. Miles' gaze remains heavy on him and ultimately that's what ruins him most. In a second, his resolve shatters and all he can think of is Lisa and everything she has done for him and her words –'I trust you' leaving a sour taste in his mouth. It's so awful –no, _he's _so awful, he has become fickle and disloyal and he no longer deserves her, or the boys, and maybe in a way this is divine retribution for his inevitable failure.

Waylon doesn't even know he's trembling until Miles lifts his face, gently. On seeing the tears, he retreats a little, till shivering, and tries a small, breathy laugh.

"I wasn't that bad, was I?"

Useless with misery, Waylon remains with his head hung, and after a few moments he shakes his head, sniffing as he manages words that have to crawl out of his mouth. "It's not that." He murmurs, dejectedly.

Without missing a beat, Miles says, "I know what it is." But he doesn't draw back. Perhaps Waylon's guilt doesn't register to him, or matter. Or maybe he only sees the reciprocity –the awful fact that Waylon had participated, and he liked it. Is he so transparent? Can Lisa see it on his skin, like slander?

For an awful second, Miles dips his head closer, and Waylon can feel his hot breath and it's so terribly intimate and tender that every traitorous instinct in his twists convulsively to lean him into the touch. He is so helpless and lovesick that he doesn't trust himself with Miles –and staggers backwards, terrified, finally mustering the courage to look Miles in the eyes.

It's then he realises that the problem is not Miles' tenacity. It's that he doesn't want to _stop _himself.

And he had said_ forever_ to Lisa. He had _promised _her. Is this who he is, now? Has this trauma changed him beyond recognition and _use_?

But Miles does not kiss him. He looks at Waylon, almost pathetically, and swallows. He comes in from the hall and closes the door behind him, oddly calm, and it's only then that Waylon notices the mottled grey tone to Miles' arms and face and the red of his cheeks. He must be freezing, and yet seems implacable when he advances on Waylon once more.

Waylon doesn't know what to do –he prepares himself for a fight, and is almost resistant when he is pulled into a firm embrace.

That's what ruins him. He wants Miles to be angry with him, and his ailing fickle heart but he isn't –and Waylon realises he has only himself to be angry at. And he's no good at being angry, never has been, and before he knows it he's completely limp, no longer fighting against the contact, but slackening against it. Miles remains holding him, not saying a word, as if he understands.

"Alright," He says, quietly, as if trying to ease Waylon. "C'mon, Park." Of all people, Miles should be hard as metal but his voice comes soft as nostalgia.

After that, he says nothing, and they remain against eachother in a strange sort of embrace for a while. It could be years –but the duration becomes irrelevant to Waylon. He doesn't think about Lisa –it occurs to him that guilt can wait, and that for now this is the most comforted he has felt in a while. Not in closeness, but in the way Miles holds him, without expectation of reciprocation, and without an air of distance.

And she wouldn't punishment for his loneliness, and she has always understood, or tried, at the very least. Waylon knows that what he's doing isn't right or loyal but it's necessary. He needs it to survive, this closeness. Romantically or otherwise, he knows he needs Miles. But Miles needs him, too.

They stay like that for a while, and Waylon feels that he has to ask, now that he feels vaguely courageous, or at least has Miles on somewhat of a backfoot. It's unlikely to happen again soon.

He draws back, a little, upsetting Miles' balance, and finds the man's eyes. It's hard to keep his gaze, but he knows he has to. For both of their sakes.

"How _long_?"

Waylon pushes through the tremble in his voice that betrays the conviction of his gaze. He ignores the want inside of him to ignore questions and context and variables –to ignore the photograph of Lisa to his far left, smiling on all of his sins, as if she is entertained by them.

Miles doesn't respond. Maybe he can't, but that isn't good enough for Waylon. He repeats himself, breathlessly. "How long? And why –why didn't you just _tell _me, when I asked?"

That doesn't seem to sit any better with Miles. He is usually so in control, so usually insulated from his surroundings, that to see his face heat up, and his words become stuck behind his teeth is a strange sight. It doesn't suit him, and though Waylon yearns for his resolve to return, he longs more for answers.

Eventually, Miles cracks, and out comes something.

"It wasn't so _easy_, y'know." He mutters, and then swallows, like the words leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"You were the only one making it difficult." It isn't Waylon's intention to be cruel. But he wants answers –even more so than he wants normalcy, or Lisa to come softly to him. "You didn't have to be so p_roud_-"

He anticipates being shouted at, but miles doesn't shout. He has made himself almost entirely known, standing there emotionally naked, too vulnerable to conjure bitterness. He murmurs, "I know that, Park." And then merely waits, as if he expects Waylon to be the one to curse his mercy. "I was-...I was just scared, y'know..?"

It hurts to hear that. Waylon doesn't want to be feared. The concept baffles him. He comes closer, and in a soft voice he talks at the base of Miles' neck, where his eye-level is. "You were _scared_?"

Miles laughs out, a little, and swallows again. It's the first time Waylon has seen him like this –explicitly, anyway. He's avoiding Waylon's eyes like they will wound him. "_Yeah_, I was scared. I thought you knew that about me."

The idea of it makes Waylon laugh. Because even though he knows Miles wakes in the night –close to tears, fearful for his very life, it never seems to go deeper than those few seconds, and Waylon always thinks the man wants to battle the world, for the sake of it. It makes Waylon cough out a laugh, and whisper, "I thought you _hated_ me."

Miles laughs back, and looks at him, at last, with a dreary smile. "I was supposed to."

Waylon searches his gaze, desperately. He doesn't trust himself to look anywhere else, because the sadness in his eyes is the only thing forcing the distance. In another whisper, he murmurs, "But you left. You were –you were so _angry_-..."

Miles raises his head again if only to stare at some bleak corner of the room. If he looks at Waylon again, he knows he'll kiss him. He knows that his self-control will dissolve and he will long for the tenderness and acceptance he feels under Waylon's ministrations. "I just-...I was just trying to outrun my humiliation. I don't know."

Without a second of hesitation, Waylon says, "I wish you'd stayed."

"Me, too, Park." Miles gets out, eventually. He swallows, and dips his head again, almost in pain. When he looks up, sheepishly, he looks to find Waylon immediately, all of his confidence gone. Torn apart at the hands of –of Waylon. The concept seems ridiculous, and yet, it's there, undeniably. "It's stupid."

Waylon agrees. "It _is _stupid. You don't –you don't know the _first thing_ about me."

That makes Miles flinch. He doesn't say anything then. After a while, Miles pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "We can –we can forget about this, okay? You have –you've got Lisa to worry about."

Lisa. God –what can Waylon say? His feelings for Lisa are no less true or passionate, and he wants and loves and admires her so arduously, but as of late almost _fears_ her. No –he fears failing her, or disappointing her. The ghost of his past self haunts him when they interact, and he has something to live up to. It makes him so hyperaware that sometimes he has to remind himself he is loving, and not acting.

But with Miles, even the worst, and darkest days are excusable. Even when he wants to die, he is shown mercy. They are tied, inexplicably. They fit at the broken places, and even when it feels like the rest of the world has abandoned him, Miles is still stood at his side, ready to walk hand-in-hand into perdition. One last goodnite.

"You're right."Waylon says, exhaustedly, after a while. "I've got –I've got Lisa –a-and the boys. We should-..."

Miles nods, soberly, and leaves him where he stands in the kitchen. He walks down the hall to his room, but pauses at the threshold of his door to address Waylon once more. He doesn't turn to face him. He just lets the words be. "You're brave."

"What?"

"I know that about you." It's then Miles lifts his head, and looks slightly over his shoulder. "You're –you're brave. And smart. And you're good at looking after people." At Waylon's faint smile, he nods, and says, "I know some things about you, y'know."

And just as suddenly as he came, he is gone, the door a cold, vacant replacement for the cool shape his shadow threw just a few moments ago. And he leaves Waylon so conflicted that he sits for a while, and reminds himself of what's real. He feels as if his world has been inverted and his truths are no longer valid.

But Lisa loves him. And he loves Lisa. And Miles –Miles hates him. Yet, he saved him, and kissed him, and looked at him few moments ago with such weight and emotion, it almost made him nervous.

God, he's a mess. He's a mess and Lisa deserves better. Her picture is still up, smiling at him, and he wonders if that makes what he's said and done better or worse.

How can he think straight? Twisted every way –what right answer is even correct? He can't think to leave Miles alone in this world, and can't think to betray Lisa's love –least of all when she's pregnant. Ultimately, his ties to her are far stronger, and he has loved her these past seven years without even momentary doubt. Yet, the atlantic cable is still tied to him, keeping itself, it seems, in a miraculous state of repair.

Miles was right about one thing –he does need to get out more.

So, with that in mind, he takes a towel and a pair of swim shorts from his room and heads down the hotel pool, thinking of the water, and the ark, and of Miles, as he sounds when he sings.

It's the closest they've got to a river.

-

Miles emerges when he has run out of cigarettes.

And only then, when he's sure the place is empty.

He emerges very quietly, his eyes wide with alarm. If he was caught now by Waylon, utterly disarmed by the way the smaller man leans on furniture when he stands, and talks in this quiet voice, he'd have even less to say. He's already failed himself today.

Things were supposed to go differently –but that's always how it is. His mother used to say that life was like being a customer in a strange restaurant, where waiters you didn't recognise brought you things you didn't want and usually didn't order. Miles never _asked_ to know Waylon, who should be his enemy –he never asked at _all_.

Nevertheless-...nevertheless, it has happened. And now he is Miles' only friend.

The hotel room is unbearable to stay in. He can still imagine Waylon pressed against him, despite the stares from the pictures of the man's wife and children. For once, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he looks at the photographs closer, as if to remind himself that Waylon is not his in the slightest –that compared to the bond of his family, the atlantic cable is feeble, and rusting.

He thinks he'll take a walk. It's too soon to encounter Waylon without feeling humiliated, and he needs to buy more cigarettes anyway. If he feels up to extended the walk, he figures he can step inside the church for a little while, and listen to the choir if they're signing, and maybe confess.

He feels as if he's already said enough today, but least if he's given some of penance, he can move on.

The hall is empty when he steps out. There is always a risk that Waylon will pass him, and Waylon still thinks there are answers to things, and he'll ask. The very idea keeps him on edge as he makes the walk down the hall, still unready for the elevator. He takes the stairs down the first flight of stairs, and pauses in the corridor there in a momentary panic, convinced he has forgotten his room key.

As he has paused, he hears the elevator to his left open, and a man in a tan jacket walks out. At first, Miles is just relieved it's not Waylon, but as the guy starts off down the hall, he notices the asymmetry in the hairline, and feels horribly cold when he realises that he recognises the man.

Not by name, or conversation, but by the sight of him waiting to die. He remembers the words, thereabouts –_Murkoff took so much from us..._

Mile is so shocked by it that he bolts forward, calling out. "Hey!" He yells, too late to watch the stranger turn the corridor. He reasons with himself, he's just under stress. Look at the way he acted with Waylon –it's obvious he's not thinking straight. He just needs another cigarette, that's all. Some time to clear his head.

Shakily, he walks down the rest of the stairs, trying to assure himself as he crosses the foyer and heads out into the snow. Its easing up outside, and soon enough it will be spring. He can tell by the way the wind is –the coldest, and darkest and worst part of the year is over. And it will get brighter from here.

Miles feels like he's walking for a very long time before he decides to enter a convenience store and buy some cigarettes. They don't have the bran he'd usually buy, but he recognises the ones he mother smoked, in the car, when they'd reconvene at the end of the day for the drive home. Those are the ones he buys, and he continues the walk with a column of smoke trailing over his left shoulder.

He arrives at the church when it's beginning to get dark. It's four-thirty or so, and he ducks in as quiet as he can, so as not to disturb the service. Jesus, it's been even longer since he sat through a Eucharist. It was never something he enjoyed, but at least as a teenager he came straight from school and could get some of his homework done.

He finds a seat at the back and tries to pay attention, but finds his mind wandering. It's difficult to feel so terrible in here, though. He can't think about Waylon's gentle rejection in here, with the warmth and gold and soft, reverberating voice of the pastor. Nothing terrible can slip under the door and so long as he's here, Miles feels like he can remain in stasis, away from his problems, just for a little while.

At some point when they stand to greet the gospel, Miles feeling suddenly tired, the cosiness and warmth overwhelming him, and when he is next conscious, he can feel a low, gentle voice by his ear, and when his eyes open, he's so convinced for a second that it's Father Martin that he kicks out in surprise and shoots up to sitting.

It's a pastor, yes, but the one who was giving the sermon earlier. Miles realises that he must have fallen asleep, and it takes him a few moments to get back into it.

"Sorry," Is what he says first, rising sheepishly. "What time is it?"

The pastor looks at him almost suspiciously, and rises, gesturing to the clock against the wall. It's nearly seven, and dark as night beyond the stained glass. Miles knows he can't stay any longer. He rises, finding himself aching from the hardwood of the pew, and takes out whatever cash he's got on him –a ten dollar note, and puts it into the donation box as if to repay for his rudeness.

Either way he slices things, he'll die if he sees Waylon, and he'll die if he doesn't see him, too.

-

It's late when he gets in.  
Miles slips in as quietly as his sins, finding the kitchen and sitting area in relative darkness. It relieves and disappoints him not to see Waylon right away, but he doesn't let it worry him. It means that he doesn't to explain himself or embarrass himself further, but it also means that there's no chance of righting himself.

Miles figures that he needs to decide what exactly to say so that Waylon won't find him on the backfoot again. It's hard to scare him, and make him speechless, but when Waylon looks at him and wants answers it's so blindsiding that every page in the volume of his mind turns in reverse so that he understands less and less and _less_.

He turns the kitchen light on and sits down, reopening the carton of cigarettes to have another. The light seems to be what does it, and he hears a shuffling before one pale arm hooks itself over the back of the sofa, and Waylon sits up.

Of course, he probably doesn't intend to disarm Miles so quickly with the way he's still half-sleepy and the way his hair is pushed up from lying on the couch. He probably doesn't intend for the small band of skin to show when he stands up, shakily, leaning like he does with one arm to steady himself as he stretches up with the other.

Miles can't say a damn word, which is why he's glad Waylon's opening remark is not a question.

"I didn't hear you come in." Waylon murmurs, as he limps over to the table to sit across from Miles. It makes Miles' face burn, being so close, aching nothing to say, or do as a defence or an excuse.

He had left so much unsaid earlier. But how was he supposed to know Waylon was going to do the talking? He was counting on Waylon being stupefied enough to explain that when it's early enough in the morning, the colour of the sky matches Waylon's soul, and even at the bleakest of times he still ardently admires the other man's trepidation and instinct. All of these things still stick in his throat and all he can do is cough out, weakly.

Waylon doesn't seem to want to address the issue right away. They let the elephant in the room be for a few minutes –and Miles realises he's being led towards it. He appreciates that quiet sort of kindness –the false obliviousness in Waylon's small voice when he asks, "Where were you?"

Miles shrugs. He closes the cigarette carton and swallows, looking hard at a patch of light shining on the wood of the table, about the size of a poker chip, just short of Waylon's left hand. "I went to the church."

"Oh." Waylon nods, unhelpfully, and then is silent for a few minutes.

The silence is the worst part. At least if Waylon said something –even the worst thing; that he despises miles and thinks the very insinuation of contact between them is disgusting and laughable, of all things –ridiculous, even, Miles would know where they stand. At least if he was told that his display of arduous infatuation was nothing more than worthless and embarrassing, he wouldn't have to wonder. But when Waylon says nothing, it leads Miles to think, and his imagination is always worse.

He hates to hear himself speak, but can no longer stand it. "Say something."

Waylon looks up, seeming almost startled, and he frowns, softly. His voice sounds so horribly sincere when he asks, "What?"

Miles won't look at him. He won't. He'll spare himself that, at least. "For Christ's sake, please just say _something_."

For a few seconds, Waylon seems to look very unsure. He looks at Miles as if the answer is on his skin or visible in the way his sad eyes refuse to meet his. Whatever the reason, Waylon remains looking at him when he finally does speak, some kind of a blush appearing on his face. "I'm not sure it's wise to say anything," He says, quietly.

It sounds too much like pity for Miles to afford it. That makes him look up, at Waylon, with intensity in his gaze. "Don't pity me –just say it. Whatever it is."

"Alright." Waylon swallows. His eyes close for a second like he's trying to muster the strength to say something, and Miles knows that means something awful is coming. That Waylon is going to open his eyes and laugh at the hilarious suggestion that he'd want Miles and his temper and his freakish fingers.

He braces himself hard, and when he hears a soft murmur, and not a laugh, he thinks he has missed something.

Looking up, he searches Waylon's pink face for some answer. "What did you say?"

Waylon heaves a sigh, and whispers again, this time a little clearer. "You're important to me." And then, when he knows he has Miles full, unbroken concentration, he elaborates. "You're the only one who understands. I –I tell you things that I won't tell Lisa because I know you get it."

Miles doesn't want to be valued for his mistakes. For what makes him broken. But he is not disappointed.

"You're high-maintenance." Waylon's voice finally breaks through with a laugh. "And I have Lisa, and the boys –and another baby coming. Even if –even if I _wanted _to-...to be with you, I couldn't ask you to tiptoe around that."

_Even if he wanted to?_ Miles tries to make sense of it all. He wants to interject, but has nothing worth saying to say.

"What are you telling me?" He gets out, finally, and he feels hurt, of all things. "I'm not asking –I'm not asking you to be with me. I know that's not gonna happen –I see the way you look at her, and how fucking _excited_ you are when she calls-..." Miles heaves a sigh of his own, and says, "I don't want to wreck your marriage, y'know."

"Then what do you want? Why would you kiss me if you didn't-"

Miles laughs a little, exasperatedly. "I don't know!" He coughs out. "I just wanted to!" It's no answer, and they're going in circles. He knows he has to be braver. He knows he has to be honest, and as much as it hurts him, that's what will cost him to fix the situation.

Waylon shakes his head. "You just do what you want, don't you, Miles?"

It's so venomous and out-of-character that Miles has to raise his voice to that. "It's not like that!" He barks out, defensively. "You want me to tell you that you _matter _to me? Is that it?!" It's not anger rising in him, it's fear, but he shouts because he doesn't want Waylon to see him for what he feels he is: a coward. "Or maybe you want to hear about how many times I have looked out for you, not because I _wanted_ to, but because I _needed _to? Because the idea of you leaving me here _alone_ is so fucking _unthinkable_ that –_that I_-..."

That's when his voice finally breaks and a horrible, wet wad of anger keeps his throat tight. He forces himself to keep his jaw clenched. He forces himself not to become upset.

Waylon talks to the table when he finally finds his own voice. "I don't need you to rescue me." And then he reaches across the table, slowly, and takes Miles' wrist in a gesture of tenderness. "I don't want to lose you as my friend, Miles. You're –you're all I've got here."

Miles nods. He tries to control the shake of his voice when it comes out, and he whimpers, "I'm not your _friend_. I'll –I'll never be your _friend_, Park."

"Whatever you are, then." Waylon says, softly. "Please don't take this as a rejection."

All Miles can do is try to laugh. At the situation. At the both of them, sitting across from eachother squeezing their hearts out here, and keeping it all in when the therapist is here. They're a strange pair, but that's what they are. Even when Waylon is rejecting him like this, so nicely, he thinks they could kiss again, for the hell of it.

"I really don't." Miles nods, trying his hardest to smile. Staring back at him, Waylon nods, resolutely.

"Thank-you." He says, his eyes glistening, searching Miles' for something. After a long, tense moment, he rises and limps around the table, until he's stood at Miles' side. He puts his arms around Miles' shoulders and tightens, letting one hand play in Miles' hair affectionately.

Maybe it's not what Miles had been shooting for. Maybe this is all he'll get, but it's better than silence, and distance, and from here he can see Lisa's picture still smiling.

Waylon feels so warm against him, but at least this way, he reminds himself –at least this way nobody gets hurt.

Nobody but him, at least.


	18. Chapter 18

'Friends' is not a word that Waylon likes.

If he is honest with himself, as he always tries to be, he knows that whatever Miles is to him -some terrible threat or his own cloudy reflection, they aren't friends. And because of circumstances any mortal control, Waylon doubts they ever will be.

He reasons with himself. Maybe it's all for the best. Outside of Lisa, he doesn't have a soul to speak to here. Waylon doesn't really have any friends. Perhaps it's not fair to use Miles as a willow, what with all that's in the air between them, but Waylon tries to justify his actions. He isn't the one with the ailing heart here -he shouldn't suffer any more on Miles' behalf.

And Miles doesn't really like him at all. Surely he's just passing the time until something better comes along. Surely that kiss was for thrills alone, and not an actualisation of any real emotion.

Of course, he says none of this when faced with the simple and innocuous enough question from his therapist, "In what capacity do you know Mister Upshur?"

He doesn't think to be defensive or to ask why that part of his life is of any interest to the therapist. As if by instinct, he lies.

"I guess we're friends." He says, despite the word. "We don't really talk much."

The therapist can probably tell the lie right away, but lets it alone to press further. "Alright." He says, in his unbearably neat voice. "Do you often offer Mister Upshur advice, if you don't mind my asking?"

Waylon doesn't exactly know what to make of the question. At first, he wonders, briefly, if Miles talks alot about him in his own sessions. He wonders if the therapist knows all about their kiss, and Miles' desires, whatever they are. Not that Miles seems the type to 'open up' at all -at least, not intentionally. But there are times when he must allow himself to feel weak and vulnerable, and Waylon thinks it must be here, where the least amount if people can witness it.

Waylon can't think of a thing to say. "I don't know." He says, quietly. "No more so than anybody else."

The therapist is the one to break the tension with a reassuring smile. "I don't mean to pry." He says, leaning forward slightly. "I have been encouraging Mister Upshur to try and establish a support network. The kind of positive interpersonal relationships that you have with your family."

Alarm bells are already ringing faintly in Waylon's ears, but he has to ask. "So, how does this affect me?"

"Hopefully, not at all." He smiles, and then draws back, indicating to Waylon that the worst is yet to come. "I just want to express my concern over your involement. The nature of your trauma is very similar to his, and I just want to avoid sympathetic regressions on your part."

But it's not Miles with the knife in his hands. It's not Miles who, on crossing the street, thinks about which car to step in front of for the most painless death. No -Miles doesn't need saving. It's Waylon who needs to be rescued, constantly, from his nightmares and anxieties and the constant paranoia thaf Lisa will see how damaged he has become and find no room for him in her life.

And even if that were to happen, and Waylon lost his everything -at least he would have Miles' bones to crawl to. Not as a deadweight, pulling him to the bottom if the ocean, but as the last buoyant, solid thing in the chaos.

In fact, Waylon finds it laughable that the very thing helping him: talking him out of low moods and even getting him out of the hotel -the very thing saving his soul is considered damning.

And then he realises it. Miles' sudden hatred softening to interest and curiosity and even care. Waylon hadn't thought to question the drastic change of heart, assuming it was a manifestation of guilt or pity and even recently lust. But it's none of those things. Instead, far simpler. Waylon is just his homework. The nearest person to grab into and talk to and kiss. No pathology runs deeper than that. Waylon isn't what he wants at all, is he? He's merely the closest and easiest to get.

Resent suddenly occurs to him, and then shame. That he liked it. That for all of thirty seconds he forgot Lisa and let himself believe that somebody like Miles could be remotely interested in someone like him.

Waylon has to cough out his words when he finally speaks. "Don't worry." He says, venemously. "I don't intend to get involved with Miles at all."

"As you like." The therapist says, very gently, as if trying to avoid causing offence. "I'm aware that with the living situation as it is, interacting with one another is unavoidable. Feel free to continue a casual relationship, by all means. Just keep in mind that catharsis should be achieved independent of your exchanges with Mister Upshur."

The suggestion makes Waylon fidget. All this time, he has never considered himself dependent on Miles. Lisa, certainly, as to see her face relieves every worry within him, but not Miles. It's more like -it's more that they help eachother along the path, only because they are the only ones there.

As if sensing his discomfort, the therapist softens, and apologises. "I'm sorry to have spent any amount of time discussing it. Be assured that you are the primary focus of these sessions, and that my only perogative is to see you safely rehabilitate to normal life."

Waylon is starting to believe that getting back to who he was before is impossible. You can't exhume an empty grave. All he has left to do is reassemble what's left and hope for the best. That's what rehabilitation is, and he had been wrong to assume otherwise. But there's hope in that -the potential to heal, and he knows he would be a fool not to embrace the opportunity.

So when he is asked, "Is there anything you want to open this session with?" Waylon does not waste his words.

For the first time, he says, "Yes." He takes a moment to assure himself, aware of how the words will sound. "The other night, I was-...somebody kissed me. And it wasn't Lisa. And I -I think I liked it." The words are impossible. Waylon feels as if he is tugging a barbed wire snare from his throat, every word more an injury; a sin. "I can't stop feling like a horrible person. "

It intrigues the therapist something extraordinary. As if burning with curiosity and suspicion, he leans forward and nods, soberly. "Can you elaborate for me, Waylon? Describe the incident to me. Did this incident alone cause you to feel low?"

Uselessly, Waylon shrugs. "I didn't know what to do. He just -he just grabbed me, and I didn't think to pull back. I -I didn't even think about Lisa..." His throat begins to feel tight and painful. "A-and I'd never do anything to hurt her."

Distress is clear and obvious in Waylon's tone and in his eyes. He looks helpless and pale and beaten. The therapist is purposefully gentle with him when he speaks. "The incident sounds very sudden, Waylon. I'm sure that you were merely in shock, and your lack of response was merely surprise, and not reciprocation."

Waylon nods, faintly. "Maybe you're right. I just -I know I'd never hurt her. And I did. I never would have done that before, and I just don't -don't want to..."

"To what?"

Waylon lifts his head and sighs. "I don't want to have changed."

The therapist nods. He takes a few seconds of silence before offering his counsel. "The very fact that you feel guilt suggests that you haven't changed. Your values are still the same." He lifts a hand, "You shouldn't punish yourself for moments of weakness. That's what this recovery period is for."

"So, it's normal to feel like this?" Waylon swallows. He waits nervously for an answer.

"Of course." The therapist tries to appear comforting. "Guilt is very normal. I suggest that you talk to your wife about the incident. Discussing it with her is likely to make you feel better. Try to put the issue to rest, and if you're still having moments of guilt or depersonalisation, we can talk about it in our next session."

"Alright." After a moment, Waylon nods.

"You musn't blame yourself. " He is advised.

And as the session continues, he realises that his therapist is right. It's not his fault. He didn't instigate that kiss. He didn't fall in love with anybody -and he never made those feelings anybody else's problem. No, Waylon is not to blame here: he's the victim of some terrible storm, having been torn into, ripped to pieces and having his outskirts left bare.

Miles will not walk away from this again, like Medusa, hissing at his wishes, making him feel cold and hard, turning everything to lifeless stone.

And Waylon is no Perseus, but has to be. He won't let Miles go free of blame again. Waylon want to scream: look what it's doing to his peace of mind, and his marriage.

Look at me now.

For a few days, Miles slips the noose.

Though, to his defence, he feels as if he has already been hung.

Waylon's rejection had been inevitable, he knows, but it makes him feel no less bitter. And the very fact he has come away, licking his wounds with genuine hurt only confirms his worst suspicion. God, for Waylon, he knows he has already made himself too well known -but how can he help it? From the moment he had first woken, hot with fever and delirium, stirred by Waylon's loving, gentle ministrations, he knew.

And he had hoped. Jesus, he'd been feverish enough to forget all about Waylon's pretty wife and his nice children and for that brief second he had been kissing Waylon and Waylon had been all his. His entirely and he knew then, without doubt, but with great conflict, that he was a sucker.

Miles hates it more than anything. He hates the very sight of Waylon, but only for what it does to him. All of his defences -his clever words and hard, cruel wit fail him, and he plays the only cards left in a game he has come to despise.

He hides.

It's not as if he hasn't has the practise. But this time it's more then slipping into lockers or under beds or even just standing still in the dark, holding a hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing. Waylon rises early in the day, but has nowhere to go, so Miles has no other choice but to rise even earlier, despite himself, and find somewhere to go. Even if it means finding a sad little coffee shop to email in.

It's not so diifficult, at first. All of Waylon's questions have been answered, and he seems perfectly content to remain as friends.

'Friends'. The very idea wounds Miles. To know that all that he has done for Waylon, and all that the man means to him amounts to something so meager. And Waylon isn't the only one who gets a say. They aren't friends to Miles. No -whatever they are, they're passed friends.

It all comes together to make the situation so intolerable that when the hotel telephone rings and Miles is told they finally have a suitable vacancy, he is relieved. He knows that distance will in no way lessen his feelings towards Waylon, but it's the only thing he has left to try. He can't spend the rest of his time hiding in church or coffee shops, waiting for an inevitable confrontation.

So, he musters whatever is left of his dignity and returns when Waylon is finished with his therapy session, his bags packed, his decisions made.

Waylon is standing in the living room when he finds him, in some green shirt that hangs off of him. His rail-thin arms are slack at his sides, but when he sees Miles they draw up, as if he is readyjng himself for a fight. And in any other context, Miles would be in his corner cheering, proud to see the usually timid man with some conviction and resolve, but here and now he wants silence and compliance.

it is difficult enough for him without resistance. But bad news never has good timing.

"Miles." Wsylon says, turning towards him. His tone is undiscernible -there's no way to tell if he's angry or upset. "We need to talk."

There's no escaping that. He can't refuse, because he knows Waylon will not let him. So he plays his strongest card, hoping the blindside Waylon enough to forego any talking. "There's a vacancy. I'll be out of here by the afternoon."

The desired reaction doesn't come. In fact, no reaction comes at all for a few seconds. Waylon stares at him, and the gaze is so piercing and hot that Miles cannot bear to shoulder it. The only thing that he can think to is do is stare back at Waylon in the same cold, vacant way.

What does he expect to happen? For Waylon to beg him to stay? Nobody will be sorry to see him go. In fact, Miles thinks -suddenly, awfull, that Waylon will probably be glad to see him go, and the thought makes him do angry and ashamed that he has to take it out on somebody.

Waylon is the first to offer himself up as bait, coughing out in his characteristic whisper, "So, that's it?"

Miles bites. He is powerless to stop the words, and all of a sudden he's snarling. "Yes, that's fucking it. Don't act like this isn't exactly what you wanted."

And Waylon must be pissed off something special to take a step forward, his voice growing in passion and volume. He sounds so utterly upset when he finally does speak, managing sonethjng near a shout. "Why would I want this? I -I never asked for you to just turn up and mess with my life and then walk out again."

"Don't pretend you were so fucking passive, Park!" Miles hates the shouting. He hates that even now he wants Waylon to kiss him, and want him, even when he is being cruel. "You were the one who came crawling to me with the knife in your fucking hands! I never messed with your life -I saved it!'

Waylon looks like he'll cry at that, for a second. And that's the worst thing he could do. If he cries now Miles won't gave a bit of hate left in him. But Waylon keeps it together for the moment, shaking his head desperately. "You know what I'm talking about. You can't just -just kiss me and then leave-"

"As opposed to what?" Miles could laugh, he feels do wretched. "What's the point in me staying? You made your fucking choice, and you don't want me in your life -so I'm gonna leave."

He has heard enough. Miles makes for the door feeling stiff and angry and miserable, wanting it all to be done with. Godwilling, he has seen sinking ships go down with more grace than he. And he thinks at last he is ready to leave until Waylon's desperate cry stops him at the threshold.

"Miles, please!" Is what Waylon gets out, pathetically. 'I -I need you." Swallowing on a throat tighter than a pinhole, Miles exhales shakily and remains facing the closed door, helplessly. After a few ragged breaths, he hears Waylon say, "You're the only one who ever-...God, you're my only friend."

"I'm not your friend."

That breaks Waylon's voice to a sharp whisper. "Could you humour me, at least?"

Miles would do anything for him. He has killed for Waylon, and suffered for him, and protected him and loved him. And he would do worse things, easily. But he can't lie.

"No," he says, hoarsely.

He turns and takes Waylon's face tenderly, their eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds before Mikes kisses him again, overcome with love and desire, one of his hands carding passionately through the smaller man's hair. It is everything he wants -Waylon is so calm and still and gentle, and when Miles closes his eyes he can see the blue of Waylon's soul and taste ocean and he feels so at peace, he could die.

When they part, Waylon is looking up at him fearfully, his lips making a word after his breathing has settled. "Stay." Waylon whispers to him. "At least for now. Please."

They both know it's the wrong thing to do. Because there's no room in Waylon's life for Miles, and the guilt of it all will inevitably kill Waylon. What he wants and needs are in conflict with one another. He can't do this to Lisa -he can't betray her like this. But his only other option is to leave Miles, and right now he can't face the loss. Maybe he's using Miles here -but only to to survive.

Neither of them can consider it. Waylon is too scared of the future to think about the bigger picture and all he's doing to Lisa and the boys. All he knows is that right now, he needs Miles.

And Miles needs him just as much.

Withdrawing, Miles feels that he is trembling -electrified by the million-watt bulb that is Waylon. He is so soft and bright and gorgeous that for a few seconds, he doesn't notice the tears that shudder and ruin Waylon. For a second, he thinks he has done something awful or wrong, and leans in.

"What're you crying for, Park?" He murmurs, softly. It goes unanswered for a few seconds, Waylon staring at the floor drawing in sad little breaths, shivering. His misery frightens Miles -he doesn't want Waylon to have cause to be unhappy ever. When there is still no response, he presses, still softly. "Hey, c'mon." He says, striving to sound gentle. "Say something. C'mon -please."

"I'm sorry." Finally, the smaller man manages some words. It does nothing to cease his tears, though. "This isn't fair to you -I'm never going to leave Lisa. I just -I need this."

Miles doesn't pretend to be surprised. He has always known where Waylon's loyalties lie. "It's okay." He says, gently, even though it's not.

Waylon seems just as aware of that. "It's not okay. I -I'm a horrible person, Miles. She's been so good to me, and you've done so much for me. I don't want to have to hurt anybody. "

But he will. And just as Miles knows his own mind he knows that he will be the one to be hurt, and left behind and forgotten. Lisa will always win out -but he feels no resentment towards her for it. She is Waylon's life, and his family, and he knows that will far outweigh whatever it is that he brings to the table.

He knows the day will come when Waylon will go home, and gave no use for him any longer. That he will be left nameless and childless and lonely -that day was going to arrive the moment they met. So all Miles can do is pretend, for now. They are the only ones here and if he tries hard enough, he can convince that Waylon is all his, even just for now.

"Let's just -let's burn that bridge when we cross it, alright?"

Waylon sniffs, still white with melancholia, and nods. He doesn't believe Miles, that much is obvious. But it's not rejection.

"Friends?" Miles asks, despite the word, allowing himself to smile after what feels like a thousand years. It makes Waylon laugh, quietly, and he nods.

"Friends." He confirms, and kisses Miles softly on the cheek.

That night, they sleep in different hotel rooms.

Miles spends the evening unpacking. He doesn't like the hotel room he's been given. It feels smaller and darker, and there are no pictures to distract him. The shadows are unfamiliar to him, and the unknown scares him into throwing every light in the place on, just to feel safe.

He opens ever closed door quietly and peers inside cautiously, casting light on the benign furnishings that hide nothing. Alone, he feels helpless as ever, but tries to tough it out and distract himself. He knows he is stronger than to be intimidated by the dark, and he knows, realistically, nothing insidious is hiding in his hotel room to get him.

But if he's so sure, why is he listening hard to every noise? Why do footsteps out in the hall make his pulse race, and why do his fingers hurt where they no longer are?

Unnerved, he tries to at least make the place home like he was unable to in 103. Waylon's family photos already claimed and haunted the place -Miles hadn't wanted to intrude. It does improve his mood, even a little, to review the few clippings and pictures he has held on to. He sticks them up where he knows he'll be comforted by them -keeping the sun-bleached photograph of his parents, young, brown, holidaying in the south pacific by his bedside.

He tries to get some rest after that, drowsing, turning fitfully in his frustration. When at last he does manage to drift off, still twitching, he doesn't find any more peace.

At first, he dreams of nothing, still and silent, but soon the darkness plunges into distant light, illuminating the grim of sewers before him. His vision is in colours, first, a slimy green that becomes detailed with shadows and the sound of whispers like the scurry of rats. And he can feel every bit of fear siezing him when he hears wet, desperate breathing grinding out an accusation.

'Little pig...I'll find all you whores...'

The colours explode into vivid smell and he knows every bit of bloody skin that composes the monster -he can taste the lust for blood and some desperate desire to contain and control and take back -takebacktakeBACK...

He knows everything if it. His every sense comes to mimick the darkness and he can feel the horrible grip of delusion and power as if it belongs to him. As if he is the one who felt it, and sudden he can feel one of his own hands reaching down at some helpless creature, one fixed around the collarbone, crunching the bones as his other severs tendons and sinews in a hard, angry tug, until he can hear vertebrates snap with an feel the hot, hot blood wetting his wrist and his hands and-

Miles comes to violently, kicking out. His nose is bleeding and for a second he can think of nothing, his brain aching, all thoughts grating like a southbound freight train seizing up to a sudden stop. The pain subsides, slightly, but he can no more gather his thoughts than shake the nightmare.

No -not a nightmare. It was too real, too visceral, every sense documented and preserved, opened again suddenly like an archived memory suddenly being retrieved. That's what it is, isn't it? He can -he can feel Walker's memories stirring in him and the idea that they are any alike scares him. Is this what the swarm does? Force-feeding him emotions and memories that it has seen to it's host, never allowing Miles to be free of all that was seen?

He can't do this alone. He can't. As much as Miles wants to pretend he is strong and implacable and brave -right now he isn't. He's alone, and afraid, and he hates himself for for it.

He hates every step he takes out of his hotel room, 215, and despises every second he shuffles down the stairs, in the dim light, still trembling. Even without wanting to, he ends up at 103, and it wounds his pride and makes him fear that he really has lost it. Yet he cannot deny the comfort in knocking on the door and hearing faint shuffling from inside.

His heart is stilled when the door does open, and Waylon appears, leaning hard on his good leg, wearing a loose white shirt and underwear. The moment he sees him standing there, his mouth dries up and he can't think of a thing to say to justify his arrival.

That's okay: Waylon doesn't make him say anything. "You can't sleep, either?"

Sheepishly, Miles nods, and he is ushered inside. He remains quiet and slips into a seat in the kitchen, wanting to sit before he falls, still able to discern the very second the head was pulled from the spine, and the sound it made. If he hadn't been so fast on his feet, he doesn't doubt Walker would have found a place for his head.

Waylon sits across from him, mewling out a small yawn that is so terribly endearing that it makes Miles smile, until he realises he probably woke the other man from a perfectly restful sleep. He gets up, suddenly, and mumbles, "You should -you can go back to bed. I'm just being-..."

With a small sigh, Waylon shakes his head. "I couldn't sleep." He says, quietly. "I had a bad dream, so I've been watching TV. " One of his arms gestures to the flickering screen behind him. "Have you settled into your new room?"

Waylon is so...polite, of all things. He talks like there's nothing between them. It leaves Miles at a loss for what to say. "It's dark." He manages. "I'm not used to sleeping somewhere so quiet -and that's if I could sleep."

It's not his intention to evoke sympathy. But it's clear on Waylon's face. He has so much sympathy for the rest of mankind, yet is so unforgiving with himself, it's almost comical. "You can-..." He looks at Miles with an apprehesive exhale. "You can stay, if you'd like." He says. "For the night, I mean."

Miles could stay forever. He would make a protest at being looked after, usually, but there's no inch of judgement in Waylon's gaze, and his words are soft and kind and Miles doesn't feel foolish to enjoy it. Nodding, he says, "Thanks, Park." He smiles. "You're a good friend."

After that, they move over to the couch. There's something or other on the television, but he isn't watching. No, he's much more focused in the feeling of safety that slowly becomes apparent to him. He isn't consciously sleepy but the feeling comes to him eventually, and his head falls to rest on Waylon's shoulder.

"Are you going to fell asleep on me?" Comes Waylon's voice, amusedly.

Sleepy, Miles nods. 'Yeah." He says, expecting Waylon to extricate himself, and leave Miles to sleep, but he doesn't. In fact, he makes no move at all, and maybe it's just because he's tired but to Miles it makes all the difference. He doesn't want to push his luck, and it's only by increments that he manages to sling his arm around Waylon in a tender hug.

To his surprise, Waylon tightens the arm around him. "There's not much room." He says, and Miles is grateful for the excuse.

The television plays on and eventually Miles falls asleep, resting on Waylon. By rights, he knows he should rise, and turn the television off and go to bed but he doesn't. He stays there and listens to the gentle sound of the other man's breathing, the inhalations and exhalations sounding like the tide.

Eventually, he does fall asleep, warm against Miles. It's not comfortable, and at one point he is woken by a terrible cry -Miles shaking as he comes into consciousness from a fitful nightmare. One he realises that Waylon is there, murmuring assurances to him, comforting him, he seems to relax, and it's only a few minutes before he drifts off again, desperate with fatigue.

Of course, Miles is long gone by the time he wakes. He can still smell the man against his shirt and in the fabric of the couch, and when he realises that Miles is no longer there he is at a loss -until he sees something leaning on the back of a kitchen chair.

A cane: the colour of Miles' hair and simple enough -a curved handle and smooth shaft. He limps over to it, yawning, and tests the feel of it in his hand. It's light enough, and when he walks, it feels like he weight is distributed evenly for the first time in months.

The feeling of it makes him so confident that he walks it up the hall, to Miles' room, as if to check that the man is sleeping there.

And even though he knows Miles no longer sleeps in the room, he's still every bit as disappointed when he sees the empty bed.


End file.
